Little Stars, Big Sky
by NotHeavenHellorPurgatory
Summary: Castiel can't understand why he knows the name of someone he's never met before. Who is Dean Winchester? And why is he so important? Dean doesn't understand the haunting dreams he has at night, or why, when a blue-eyed, black-haired stranger moves in next door, the dreams start carrying into reality. Destiel. Human (no hunting) AU. (Kid!fic)
1. Praemonitus

**A/N:** Starting another little story. /sigh, these characters are haunting me. I haven't wrote anything but fanfiction for months. Anyways. This is another Destiel fic. (my OTP what can I say?) Also a human AU. And a kidfic, somewhat. And...with a bit of a supernatural element that will come into play later. I think. I'm not exactly sure where this is going (this is also one of the first things I've uploaded without having the majority finished), but don't worry, I promise to stay with it. Updates will come at least once a week. I'm anticipating at least five chapters, most likely more. The first chapter comes in John's POV, the rest will switch between the kids. Reviews make me really, really excited, and I love to be asked questions or just given speculation. And suggestions actually, where this story is concerned. The prompt comes from Leviathan Castiel. Please R&R and Enjoy. Thank you!

* * *

John has a lot of rules. He's a parent, a slightly over-concerned parent, but he has his reasons. When your wife dies in a house fire that _almost_ takes your two boys too, you get a little overprotective. Then there's the Marine training (ingrained and carved into his bones) that requires structure and order and immediate, unconditional obedience.

On bad nights (when whisky sings to him in the night and beer bottles litter the floor like a transparent blanket), John thinks Mary would _hate_ him. She never approved of his heavy handed, militaristic attempts at parenting. He likes to think if she were still alive, she would have softened him up more. Made him a better father.

But she's not. And John's two boys have been left completely at his mercy.

John has a lot of rules.

For example:

- There will be no mention of the guns in the house

- Neither will their be mention of firearms training

- Friends cannot visit the house without at least 24 hours of notice

- Mary is not to be mentioned. Ever

- The dishes will not be left in the sink over night

- John's drinking will not be mentioned. Ever

- Look after each other. Always and unconditional.

John's boys, still pudgy faced Sam (only 8) and bold eyed, solider Dean (a proud 12), follow his directives silently. Sam sometimes has questions. (_"Why can't we talk about Mom? I don't know anything about her!" _or _"I don't _want_ to practice shooting! Why do we have to?"_) and John fears that the quickly silenced questions will escalate as childish innocence morphs to fierce independence.

Then, of course, there's Dean. Sturdy, trust-worthy Dean. John doesn't argue with his oldest son. He doesn't have to explain the importance of _not talking about guns because people with question and wonder and nothing good ever comes from questioning and wondering_. Dean nods and follows and never looks back.

At least, that was the case before a scruffy old man with a greasy baseball cap moved across the street. Him and that wide-eyed, blue-eyed boy.

At first, John doesn't care. Just another family, albeit an odd one because they can't possibly be related. There is zero family resemblance. More irrelevant neighbors.

Until Dean takes an interest, and those two strangers became very, _very_ relevant.

It starts slow. Dean is not an open boy. He isn't overly friendly or very social. Maybe because of John's preference to silence than useless chatter. Maybe because of the tragedy early in his life. John doesn't know. But he does know that Dean had a few friends from school (a long-haired, crooked smiling boy named Ash and a slightly pudgy boy with a southern drawl named Benny) but that's all. And that's fine because John wants Dean to stick close to Sam—protect Sam—and without friends to distract him, that job is much easier.

However, when the odd kid and the old man move in next door, Dean perks up. He looks through the windows a lot. When Sam pedals his bicycle around the block, Dean gets distracted staring at that house across the street. At least three times Sam almost rides into traffic before Dean breaks out of his thoughts and catches him.

John was worried then.

Only slightly worried, but that worry is accompanied with the ominous feeling that worse things are to come.

Worse things come.

It's a rainy day, the muggy disgusting kind with black clouds and red skies that make John consider getting a tornado shelter (even if the last twister that touched down in town was decades ago and only stirred up some wind in the fields and dropped a cow on some poor man's car).

John is driving Dean home from school. Sam stayed home that day, sick and asleep when John left the house. The rain is going strong, making tears on the car's windows and beating relentlessly on the hood. Thunder claps and every so often Dean will give a little jerk, then duck his head—embarrassed. John pretends not to notice.

They are pulling into their street (water starting to pool by the gutters: flash-flooding. Great) when John sees him. The strange boy with big blue eyes, sitting outside on the lawn, completely drenched.

John is content to turn a blind eye, pull into their own driveway and shuffle Dean inside. He has no desire to involve himself with the strangers across the street or discover whatever possessed the boy to just sit out in the middle of a storm. It isn't John's responsibility, nor his business. And he would have just ignored it all if Dean didn't catch sight of the pathetic boy. His son jerks ramrod straight up in his seat and yells,

"_Dad_. Wait!"

And so, he waits, stalling in the middle of the road. "What?" he asks, but it's obvious. Dean's eyes are narrowed in on the lawn across the street, on the boy.

"That kid," Dean mutters, "he's just sitting out there." His little child face is scrunched together as if this is the greatest sort of tragedy. "He's getting all wet."

John tries to avert the inevitable. "We're not supposed to stick our noses into other people's businesses, Dean—"

"But, Dad!" Dean interrupts.

_Dean _never_ interrupts John._

He seems to realize this too, as the shock settles over John, and his own eyes widen in horror. "I'm sorry, sir, it's just—he's gonna catch a cold and that's no good. He'll be really, really miserable—he could die if it was really bad and—"

"That's enough," John commands. Cold. Definite. Final.

Dean lowers his head. An almost pout shadows his face as he waits to be punished. Resigns himself to it.

John pauses. He was prepared to snap a few reprimands, harsh as they needed to be, just for being interrupted. Good little soldiers did _not_ undermine the authority of their superiors.

But there is that quiet, tiny _Mary voice_ in the back of his head chiding him because their sons are not soldiers. They are young boys, and John is wrong to treat them otherwise.

John lifts his hand, and is stung a little by Dean's flinch, then he brings it down lightly on his son's shoulder. He smiles. "That's good, Dean. Caring about people is good," (or so Mary would say) "Go on out and ask him what's wrong."

The disbelief on Dean's face is almost painful.

John struggles to keep his smile up—is he really that bad?—"Hurry up. Run. I don't want you getting sick, too."

Dean jumps up then (obedient once again) and charges out of the car as though the raindrops and thunder are insubstantial.

John watches through the windshield as his son dashes across the street and up the neighbor's lawn to stand directly in front of the wet, wet boy. He can't see either of their faces, but there is a sudden jerk in Dean's shoulder (the surprised kind—not the scared sort, John would know) then he is leaning over the boy and yanking him to his feet.

That's when John catches sight of the kid's face, forehead wrinkled in confusion, but as Dean drags him back to the car (and Dean's expression is a twist of disbelief and anger) it settles into a sort of awe.

Awe directed firmly at Dean.

John's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

As the boys reach the car, John rolls down the window. Both are dripping, clothes plastered to their bodies, hair dark with moisture and glued to their heads. "What's going on?"

Dean answers first (but the quiet stolid look on the other boy's face implies he had no intention of responding anyway), "He got locked out of his house. Figured he'd wait outside til his," and here Dean stutters, eyes flicking down to the strange boy.

The strange boy speaks, "My guardian. Mr. Bobby Singer. We share no familial connection."

Yes, John was very right in thinking he was odd.

He clears his throat. "So, you can call him?"

The boy tilts his head, squinting again, but doesn't answer.

Dean speaks for him. "No. He doesn't have a cell."

_Strange_, John thinks. Strange that Dean has taken so immediately to this boy that he has never met before. Strange that they seem to share almost the same mind, answering and speaking in nearly the same way as Dean and Sam: together. Strange that they stand so close, the strange boy crowding behind Dean's back, and Dean still holding onto his hand firmly, even as the need has disappeared.

Dean turns to the kid, head crooked down slightly to cover the small distance in height between them. "You can come inside. Use ours." He says this almost chastising, as if the kid should have known this.

John clears his throat, and Dean immediately stiffens, quickly back-tracking, "I mean, um, if that's, uh, okay with—"

The boy puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, instantly quieting him in a way that John has never been able to. "I can return to waiting. The rain does not bother me."

And you could almost believe him, if not for the shivering. John sighs. He used to be a cruel, cold man who wouldn't think twice about leaving a kid out in the rain. He still is sometimes.

But not today. Even if everything about the boy unsettles him.

John shakes his head brusquely, pushing such thoughts way. "Nah. You should come in. Call this, uh, _Mr. Singer_, and wait until he gets back." John inclines his head to the door. "Dean."

Dean proceeds to grab the boy again and lead him under their awning over, to the house's door.

John couldn't have known then.

He couldn't have known that it would all lead to disaster.

The strange boy follows Dean so blindly, so trustingly, it's almost endearing—if John was the sort of man to be endeared by children. He is, however, amused by the angry, concerned lecture the boy receives from Dean on the porch. John can't hear what is said, but he assumes it resembles the chewing out Dean gave Sam for getting lost in the tall grass behind the house (they didn't find him til the next day and neither John nor Dean slept that night). The kind of talk that is furious at first glance but permeates, upon greater study, with worry and relief.

This should have been his first clue.

John will regret not leaving that strange boy out in the rain. He will regret not telling Dean "No" and keeping Dean, if only for a short while longer, tucked neatly in John's world of many, numerous rules and black-and-white, clear-cut dimensions.

How could he have known what their friendship would become, or how it would rip that perfectly structured world into tiny, meaningless pieces?


	2. Adaequatio Intellectus Et Rei

**A/N:** Yeah, this chapter was hell. Ripped it to shreds half way in, but I'm happy with how it's turned out. Good news! I actually know where this is going now. And I should be updating the summary too, except that I suck at summaries so that might take a while. Also, I warn you here, this may be a bit confusing, and I am trying to put an actual plot into this (with mystery and all that nonsensical goodness). If you need to, just shoot my question and I'll try to answer it without spoiling anything. Anyways, when I said updates at least once a week...well I don't think I'll keep a really tight schedule. You're probably going to get more than one chapter a week, at least until school starts again. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited or followed. I ask again that you R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

Dean wasn't always a quiet boy. When Mom was still around, he talked loudly, laughed loudly and smiled loudly. She liked to see him smile, and Dean liked to make her happy.

When Mom died, Dean was faced with John. Big, strong, silent John—_Dad_. He loved his father, he did, but with him there was pressure and expectations. _To be a good son_. Dean wanted to make him happy, just like he had with Mom, and the best way was to be all that Dad wanted. Strong. Quiet. Obedient.

Dean doesn't know when he lost that easy smile or the ability to laugh and play carefree like a child. He guesses it happened slowly. As if his father's expectations slowly drained it out of him, little by little, until all that was left was solider-like discipline.

Dean can't help but think, the way he is now, he wouldn't be able to make Mom smile anymore.

* * *

Dean sits at the kitchen table the day he rescues the boy across the street from the rain. He sits firmly the way Dad taught him to: hands clasped in front of him and back straight. His eyes are locked onto the table as the mysterious boy phones his "guardian." Dean is rigid, and Dad, who sits opposite to him at the table watching it all, would probably commend his discipline. But Dean knows that isn't the case. He is not stiff—he is frozen. Completely ensnared in the chaos of his thoughts, holding desperately to a calm façade (also from Dad) while raging inside.

_He doesn't understand. Not any of it._

Dean doesn't understand why, when the car first pulled into the drive way across the street, he felt a jerk. Like some invisible thing went and kicked him right in the brain. At first he put it off. There was no plausible explanation, and he didn't want to waste time on the impossible. Besides, Sam needed to be fed. And Dean is good at ignoring things.

For as long as he could remember, Dean was ignoring things. Now it's mostly Dad's drinking, or the absence of Mom's pictures in the house, but there is more. Dean has…dreams. Not scary dreams like Sam's nightmares. Those shake his little brother in the middle of night. Have him crying and screaming bloody murder, thrashing about in his bed like something was trying to kill him.

No, Dean's dreams are different.

Dean dreams of fragments, of voices and people and scenes that are just too real to ignore. And when he wakes up, he's panting, lost for a moment in the false reality of his mind. Lost as to where he is or how he got there.

He dreams of cities overrun, corpses rotting in the streets. He dreams of gold eyes and the burn of white, shining wings on his retinas. He dreams of hot summer days and the feeling of wind through his hair, music playing quietly (or obnoxiously loud) in the background and the murmur of conversations he can never make out.

Dean tried to tell Mom about them when she was still alive, but she laughed, smoothed his hair down and said, "What a beautiful imagination my Dean has."

He refuses to talk to Dad about it. He isn't stupid.

So three weeks ago, when there's an inexplicable pull in his chest as the new neighbors pull up, he shoves it down and focuses on feeding Sammy. He turns away from the window (with a perfect view to that green house across the street), and starts making Sam's sandwich.

Except that, when he turns to grab a plate, he catches sight of the new neighbors.

Dean gets a glance at a messy black head of hair and he freezes. He can't really see his face. Just a vague pale blur, a black mess on top, blue dotted somewhere in the middle, but it's like he has double vision. There's an empty ringing in his ears, and a pain in the back of his head. He sees the boy getting out of the car, but there's a shadow of something else embossed over the scene. It's a different car, Dad's car, he realizes, and there's a tan shape getting out instead, extremely taller and slightly wider, but with the same mess of black on top, blue spotted somewhere in the middle.

Dean drops the plate, but barely notices.

The two pairs of blue eyes turn toward him, watching. _Seeing_. The shadow image flashes, so bright Dean actually shuts his eyes.

When he opens them again, it's gone. Only the small, thin boy, still staring. But then, a bearded man gets out of the driver's side, crosses in front of the car and grabs the boy's shoulders, practically dragging him to the door and inside the house.

It takes a second after their exit for Dean to realize Sam is shouting for him. At him. And pulling at his jeans. He blinks his eyes, suddenly bone tired, but pats Sammy on the head and pushes a reassuring, slightly shaky smile onto his face. After Sam quiets, he picks the plate off the ground and gets another for the sandwich.

Dean tries to fake his usual enthusiasm, but Sam doesn't seem to really buy it. They eat quietly, and when Sam gets up to play by himself (reading books, the nerd) Dean doesn't follow him.

He rises, puts the dishes away and quietly watches Sam from the safety of the hallway.

Until it's time to put him to bed, (and John is locked away in his room), Dean doesn't allow himself to truly _freak out. _But when the house is quiet and Dean is sitting on his bed, alone in his room, he does.

His thoughts race faster and faster from suppression, but it doesn't matter. There's no explanation. Nothing that could make sense. And Dean can't ask Dad. The man didn't believe in stupid things like phantom pains and hallucinations and _dreams_.

Dean would get in trouble.

So he keeps his mouth shut, and shoves the uncertainty, panic and confusion into a corner in his head. He pretends he cares nothing for the new neighbors across the street even as he can't stop thinking about the boy and the shadow man with the tan trench coat. They are a constant itch in the back of his head. _Black hair. Sky eyes. Black hair. Sky eyes. _

It's starting to drive him insane.

And Dean would get lost in it—the pull. The subtle attraction to the house across the street. He wouldn't realize he was gone until something jerked him out of it (like Sam almost getting run over _three times_).

Dean doesn't understand it.

And as Dad drove him home from school, he finds the strange boy sitting out in the rain on the grass.

It all goes downhill from there.

Dean can't stop himself from caring. The urge to run outside and wrap that boy up in the warmest blanket to take him inside is almost irrepressible. The itch turns into a burn.

Here, now in the kitchen with the strange boy standing behind him, that burn has faded into nothingness. When he looks at the boy he does not see phantom shadows. But that pull, that urge, doesn't go away like the itch. It strengthens. And Dean struggles to ignore it.

"Thank you," the boy says indifferently into the phone, "I will. Goodbye." There is the click as the plastic phone slides back onto its receiver.

Dean takes a deep breath.

Dad clears his throat. "So?"

When the boys speaks again, it comes inches from behind Dean's head. So close he almost jumps. "Mr. Bobby Singer will be back soon," is all he says.

Dad waits, but the boy doesn't expound. Dad purses his lips (Dean sees this even as he tries to avoid his gaze). "Fine." Then the scratch of his chair as he stands from the table. "I'll go check on Sammy." With an exasperated huff, Dad is gone.

Dean attempts to pick between three actions.

One: run to check on Sam (it is his job. Their Dad hasn't nursed either of his sons in years.

Two: turn to the boy and demand to know what the _hell_ was going on.

Three: stay quiet and impassive and pack this all away (the boy, the pull, the dreams) until it all went away.

Then the boy sits down opposite of him, in Dad's vacated seat, and forces his hand. The worn knit blanket Dean threw over him as soon as he came in is slightly wet and falling off his narrow shoulders. His hair is dry (towel dried by Dean) and he's stopped shivering. "Hello Dean," he says.

Dean flinches. "How do you know my name?"

The boy frowns. "That is what your father called you. Am I wrong?"

Dean forces himself to relax. He's overreacting. "No no. That's my name." There are questions burning holes in the back of his throat, yet somehow the only one he manages to force out is, "Who are you?"

"Castiel," is the boy's immediate response.

In that second, the world splinters. The color leaks away. The lines fade. Dean is suddenly surrounded by shadows—blind.

"_Yeah, I figured that much, I mean _what_ are you?"_ a phantom voice whispers in the dark.

Another ghost replies resolutely, _"I'm an Angel of the Lord."_

Then it all sucks out like vacuum, blinking away in an instant. Dean is shoved back into reality, reeling.

He gasps.

He's had those dreams, like an odd meaningless patch-work quilt of sensation and flickering images, but nothing like this. Never like this.

Castiel lunges forward. Dean sees the action even as his eyes roll senselessly in their sockets.

"Dean? _Dean. _Look at me," Castiel hisses. He grabs Dean over the table by his shoulders.

The places where his hands touch burn. They sear like bare flesh on an open flames and the pain flashes bright in his eyes like fireworks. It brings him back.

He shoves away from the table, crouched over himself like a wounded animal. "Get away from me," he spits.

Castiel jerks back as if Dean's words are blows. His eyes are pulled wide, mouth tilting open at the corners. "Dean—"

Dean's mouth opens, seconds away from letting lose a volley of shouting, but suddenly there's a shrill scream from the telephone and the pressure of those words in his throat dies out.

Castiel is staring at him like the answers to everything are held in his eyes. He's half on the kitchen table, feet barely touching the floor. Dean has his arms wrapped around himself, trying to hold it all together. The only thing in his eyes is fear.

He swallows, then and with a voice reminiscent of a thousand commands from Dad, he orders, "Go get the phone."

At first, Castiel doesn't look like he'll listen. His face (smooth and rounded by vestiges of baby fat) is crumpled in frustration. Dean prepares to force another demand from his mouth, but then Castiel's expression melts. It just…disappears. In its place is a blank mask. There is no emotion in it. Just apathy. Dean shivers.

Castiel gets off the table and moves to the phone, brushing against Dean's arm as he walks. Dean squares his shoulders and pretends it doesn't bother him.

The ringing stops as he picks up the phone. There is a pause. Castiel mutters a swift, "Fine," then hangs up again.

"Mr. Bobby Singer has returned," he says.

Dean's arms tighten around him. He doesn't speak.

Castiel lets the silence hang. He leaves a wide opening for him, but Dean doesn't take it. He can't.

Castiel sighs, then mummers, "Goodbye, Dean." Then he is retracing his steps through the Winchester home (Dean can hear his soft footsteps) to the front of the house.

Dean doesn't let himself breathe again until he hears the door creak open then shut.


	3. Condemnant Quod Non Intellegunt

**A/N: **Okay, I'm extremely sorry this took so long. But at least it's out, right? And it's a tad bit longer. I ended up mashing two shortish chapters together in here, so there is a mix of POV. They'll be marked by line breaks so you don't get confused. Thanks for all who took the time to favorite, follow or review. Please enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

Castiel walks out of Dean's house with his head held high, little fists clenched and quivering with barely suppressed anger. Mr. Bobby Singer is waiting for him with the car: a fickle assortment of rust, steel and upholstery. The rain hasn't stopped. As soon as Castiel clears the doorway, it pounds onto him and any warmth absorbed inside the house (with Dean) is sucked away in seconds. Castiel unconsciously pulls the blanket (Dean's blanket) tighter over his shoulders.

Even though the boy he left inside probably wants it back, Castiel hugs it tighter.

Mr. Bobby Singer pushes open the passenger door as Castiel plods closer, scowl hidden in his beard. Castiel climbs in jerkily, struggling to keep the blanket wrapped around himself. The squeak of his wet shoes on the car makes them both wince.

"You alright, boy?" Mr. Bobby Singer barks, pushing the car into drive.

Castiel glances at the window as if the force of his gaze can cut through dry wall and cement to Dean Winchester curled around himself inside, scared. _Alone_.

Castiel always hated being alone.

"Yes," he says, monotone as usual, but he just isn't a good enough liar.

The suspicion in Mr. Bobby Singer's eyes confirms that.

They're pulled into their driveway now, perpendicular to Dean's house. Castiel would have to crane his neck around to keep eye contact with it, so he lets it go. The loss is immediate.

Mr. Bobby Singer pulls the keys out of the ignition but stalls before actually exiting the car. He turns to Castiel instead, eyes tight and eyebrows pushed together in one angry line. "We've discussed this."

They'd discussed this.

Castiel turns his face away. Shame colors his neck. He expects a reprimand along the strong generally violent nature of his previous foster family. He hadn't obeyed. But Castiel is surprised when instead, Bobby Singer places a hand (big—it devours Castiel's entire shoulder) on him and in a weary, softer voice, says,

"Until we can figure this out—how it connects and how you know him—you can't be around him."

Castiel knows this. He's accepted it. But when he saw Dean up close, ghosting mist in the rain, what could he do but follow? It was like second nature. Like gravity and ever second spent away is a burn in the back of his head. _Wrong_.

"Castiel," (and here Castiel blinks because Mr. Bobby Singer is much fonder of "boy" or "idjit" than his name) "We'll figure it out. We'll fix it."

Castiel shuts his eyes and for the moment allows himself to rest against Mr. Bobby Singer's conviction. He takes a deep breath, willing every thought of Dean Winchester to flee from his head even if they're all of him—every fleeting impulse, because he has to focus. He can't lose sight of their goal.

They won't fail. They can't.

_They'll fix it all._

Mr. Bobby Singer tucks Castiel into bed after a hot shower, change of clothes and a can of chicken noodle. He tries to put annoyance into his actions, but the act is ruined by the gentle pat he gives to Castiel's head before leaving his room.

"Get me if you need anything. I'll be up with the books all night," he says as a farewell, then leaves, closing the door behind him.

It's much more than Castiel's used to. For the first seven years, the only good night he received was a menacing warning to stay in bed, _silently_. But this was all radically different than then, down to every single detail.

The room belongs to him (not three other hyperactive, whining children). He's stacked it full of books—all his too. Mr. Bobby Singer even helped him paint the walls the first week they moved in. They're forest green—the color of leaves after rain: luminescent.

The exact shade of Dean's eyes.

But Castiel hadn't known that then. He hadn't known a thing about Dean Winchester. Not his face (held strong yet softened on the edges). Not his age (close if not identical to his own). Not his voice (pre-adolescent but firm).

All Castiel knew of Dean Winchester before, was that he needed to find him. He needed to seek him out and _fix everything_.

Castiel doesn't know why. He doesn't know_ how_. He doesn't know the specifics of anything. Just that name, haunting him ever in the edges of his mind and this dogging _feeling_.When he tried to explain (to his foster family, to his teachers, to anyone but Bobby Singer) they shook him off. _"Dean Winchester is an odd name for an imaginary friend_._" _They said. _"You shouldn't make up stories, Castiel. Lying is wrong."_

But not Mr. Bobby Singer.

Albeit, the man had just watched his wife die and stood in the smoke of her killer's destruction (Castiel's fault—_all his fault_) when Castiel had explained. However Mr. Bobby Singer listened to Castiel's story—and believed. He took him away from that cold, cold foster home, and here he is. Closer to Dean Winchester (mysterious Dean Winchester) than he ever thought he'd get.

Mr. Bobby Singer wants to know why his wife died.

Castiel is sure the answers lie with Dean Winchester.

They're at a standstill, because Dean is not what Castiel expected. If he had any ideas of an all-knowing man holding the keys to all their questions, he was horribly, horribly wrong.

Dean Winchester is just like Castiel.

Scared. Confused. Alone.

But Castiel has Mr. Bobby Singer and he has his purpose. While the indignity (and unfairness) of Dean's quick dismissal makes his whole body tense, even now, it also makes him sad.

Castiel isn't tired. He's used to operating long nights, reading, thinking, blocking out the wails of his younger roommates. His eyes keep straying to the window. Almost pulled there.

The image of Dean's twisted face is still fresh in his mind. _Pain._ Castiel doesn't want to cause any more pain.

He curls around himself in bed. The comforter around him is softer than the blanket Dean gave him, but somehow not as warm.

* * *

In the Winchester home—no, for Winchesters in general, when things get bad, there is never a reprieve to _think_ or even just take a breath, before things get radically worse. _Immediately_. Dean Winchester comes to realize this as Castiel walks out, leaving him trembling in the middle of the kitchen. Before even another second passes, Dad flies down the stairs. He's out of breath with a sheen of sweat over his forehead. "Sam's fever just went up. It's 104, now."

And with that, the mind-paralyzing confusion and anger falls away. Dean storms up the stairs before Dad can move out of the way, but he's gone, before any stern rebuff can reach him. Then he's standing at the head of Sam's bed with almost no recollection of getting there. Just Sam Sam _Sam SAM. _

His brother is writhing under his covers. Contorting and hissing in breath. Face red—a universe beyond flushed. The mattress is soaked. He's whispering words under his breath, but his eyes are glued shut. His hairs is whipped up in spikes, clumped together with sweat and stuck to the pillow.

Dean doesn't realize Dad has arrived too, until he clears his throat behind him. "What do we need to do?"

Dean wants to say _take him to a hospital_, but Dad hates them. He detests the idea of them, and it's not as though Dean has love for their white walls and too quiet halls, so he'll have to make do at home. Unless the fever doesn't break. If it rises, he internally vows to himself, they're gone. Dad and him be damned. But until then,

"Get a wet wash cloth, ibuprofen and some new sheets," he rattles off without looking away from Sam. Still, he can hear Dad rush out instantaneously. This _is_ Dean's area of expertise. _Caring_. Not sharpshooting or rod-stiff obedience.

Dean shakes those thoughts out of his head. He doesn't have room for them. Just _Sammy_.

He's drying the sweat off of Sam's face with his own shirt when Sam starts babbling nonsense, rapid fever mumblings.

"Shhh," Dean soothes, gritting his teeth to keep his calm, "It's fine. It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I've got you."

Sammy's shivering just gets worse, and his eyelids peak open to reveal the rolling white underneath.

This isn't good. This isn't good at all. Where the _hell_ is Dad? Dean needs that cold cloth because Sam is burning burning burning up. He's about to yell for Dad—Dean's at the edge of his rope, when the nonsense mumblings from Sam solidify, and Dean makes out a weird reflection of the reassurances he'd just given.

"It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I've got him."

And even though it makes no sense (fever ramblings rarely do) it's like Dean's heart falls out of his chest. A blockage slams in his throat—he can't breathe, and the ice fire in his eyes is certainly a prelude to tears.

Then a smile—serene and placid—spreads over Sam's face. His body relaxes, motionless into the bed.

Somehow this frightens Dean even more. His heart jumps back into his chest, working double time. It's a good thing Dad returns then, with the soaked towel, bottle of pills and bundle of blankets, because without something to do, his hands are left trembling with no sign of stopping.

It takes the rest of the night and a few hours into the morning (not that Dad would know—he passed out around eleven), but Dean gets Sam's fever down to a calmer 99 degrees before settling on the discarded blankets by Sam's bedside and lolling into a waking sleep. So thin and useless that when Dean wakes up it's like his eyes were never closed.

His head and neck ache from craning over his brother for hours on end, nursing and comforting and _worrying_. There's an exhausted fog in his head, and he has to force himself to bring the room into focus.

Dad took the only chair in the room last night, and he snores in it still. Sam nests in his newest set of sheets, having sweat out the first three, but there is no longer an angry glow to his face.

Dean lets himself relax against the wall. He's missed school. The clock on Sam's nightstand reads 9:47. Still enough time for Dad to make it to work if Dean gets him up, but two hours too late for him.

There's no time for him to lay about any longer, so Dean gets to his feet. He's stepping forward, away from the bed, when suddenly Sam's hand shoots off the mattress and latches onto his forearm.

"What the—I thought you were asleep!" he whisper hisses.

Sam blinks, fully awake, hopefully coherent but doesn't say anything. His eyes are still closed.

"Sam? Something wrong?" Dean leans in, curious. The fever passed hours ago, but there's something about his brother. The stillness of his face as if he was still asleep.

Dean's only inches away from Sam's face, when his brother's eyes snap open.

Dean jumps again. "Seriously, Sammy. Cut it out. It's not…" he trails off. There's something wrong with Sam's eyes. They're not wide-open, bursting with questions and excitement and awe but vacant. Empty.

"Sam." Dean's getting nervous now. No longer sleep or dreaming, there is ice in his veins. "Sammy." He's not whispering anymore, and Dad stirs in his chair. Dean doesn't care. He shakes Sam by the shoulders. Lightly. Roughly. Desperately. _Desperately, _"_SAM_."

Sam's eyes blink. Once. Twice. Again And then the awareness bleeds back into them, washing the horrifying blankness away. "Dean?" he groans, stretching under the covers and rolling his shoulders. "What's goin' on?"

It's Dad who answers. "You got sick."

Dean nods absently. Trying to force his breath to slow and grip to loosen. Had he imagined those eyes like flat glass? Not Sam. Not his Sam at all. But his brother's fine. And giving a slightly disbelieving look at Dad. The one with his eyebrows all arched and cross. He's _fine_.

Dad doesn't notice it. His eyes stray away (almost averted purposely) and as they glance over the clock, they widen. There's a second, and one quick command, "Dean stay home and take care of your brother," before he dashes out of the room and in a few minutes, out of the house.

As if Dean ever needed the instruction.

Dad leaves and the house goes quiet. Sam smiles again, and resolutely professes his recovery. Dean tries to force himself to relax. They stay together, in Sam's room, for the rest of the day. Reading _books_, because, as always, Dean's little brother is an insufferable nerd. But Dean doesn't ask a single question about Sam's mumblings last night, or what he could've possibly been dreaming about. He just grins quietly and ruffles Sam's hair, in the effortless way they have always had. _Happy Happy Happy_. And he most certainly doesn't spare a single thought for the boy across the street with the weird name and stooped shoulders (carrying the weight of worlds) like Dean's.

_Castiel_.

Well, maybe Dean's lying about that last one.

* * *

The day after Castiel meets Dean, he doesn't catch another glimpse of the boy. And while he doesn't want to stare moonily out the window at the Winchester's house, he finds his eyes stuck there, train of thought abandoned time and time again.

Mr. Bobby Singer notices. He sets down his book in their living room after the first four times Castiel's gaze finds itself across the street, and sighs, "Whatcha making puppy eyes at?"

It startles Castiel from the perfectly tended green grass and shuttered windows across the street. He blinks at Mr. Bobby Singer silently.

"The dad tore outta that place a while ago." Mr. Bobby Singer lifts his cap, rakes a hand through his greasy hair then quickly replaces it. "Might as well do something productive, instead of pining after him like a school girl."

Castiel blushes. He didn't know he was that obvious.

"I'm gonna need to leave soon. Cut business a little too short last night," Mr. Bobby Singer says off-handedly after a second.

This only makes Castiel feel worse. If he'd remember the keys when he left (to do something so mundane and simple as taking the trash out), Mr. Bobby Singer wouldn't have had to leave his meeting early to rush back and pluck him out of the Winchester's home.

"I'm sorry," he says, just over a whisper.

Mr. Bobby Singer stiffens. "You made a mistake—an idjit mistake mind you—but I ain't mad"

Castiel looks away, so he's startled when a heavy hand reaches down and sweeps up his hair in a sort of pat. He looks up at Mr. Bobby Singer, but he can't decide it a smile is hiding under the hair and shadows or if it's merely a trick of the light.

The hand drops. "You got me boy?"

Castiel ducks his head. "Yes."

There's a snort. "Get yourself sorted out. There's bacon on the stove and a cup of orange on the table." Bobby singer flips another page in his book like that doesn't mean anything.

Like Castiel has ever had someone make him breakfast before.

He stands, a little wary and unsteady on his feet.

"Hurry up," Mr. Bobby Singer advises, gruff again but the tips of his ears over his baseball cap are red. "Your food's gonna get cold."

Castiel jumps up and skitters off to the kitchen, a little bit of a smile curling over the corners of his mouth when Mr. Bobby Singer calls,

"And get used to the idea of school. I just enrolled you. You start next week."


	4. Ducunt Volentem Fata, Nolentem Trahunt

**A/N: **Another chapter. Longest one yet. Please R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

After a weekend of watching Sam _constantly_ (it's gotten to the point that if Dean has to read Jimmy's Great Adventures one more time, he'll tear out his eyes) and pointedly _not_ thinking of anything but the next meal or if Sam looks a little too pale, he's almost exhausted. It wasn't exactly productive. Dean indulged his little brother—really, after that fevered night how could he not?—and they lounged around in pajamas all day long. Dean couldn't think of anything better to do. And not much else he wanted to push Sam into while he was recovering.

Besides, it's not like there was anyone to yell at them to get up and mow the lawn or start on the laundry. They don't want anyone either. Dean is enough for Sam, and Sam is enough for Dean.

And there's Dad. Even if they didn't see him much that weekend. At least, Sam didn't. Sam is tucked into bed and fast asleep hours before Dad stumbled into the house Saturday night (Sunday morning). He'd been mumbling something about _Mary always knew how to deal with colds_ when Dean led him upstairs and settled him into bed.

Dean's getting used to putting him in bed. He's getting used to the drunken mutterings and late nights. It didn't used to be this bad. Even directly after Mom's death. But Dad seems to be sinking in her absence, and either he _can't_ pull himself out or just refuses to. Dean doesn't know which he prefers. Possibly because he'd rather not think about the rapidly deteriorating state of his father. He just shoves all the doubt back down—in the shadowy abyss he shoves everything else that can't be helped—and pushes forward.

Life doesn't wait for you to get you to get your shit straight and Dean can't afford to be left behind.

So, on Monday morning, Sammy's up, well enough for school and bouncing at the door, backpack in hand.

"Are you ready? I'm ready. Is Dad up yet? I don't want to be late. It's my first day back. I bet Ms. Middleton'll give me a badge or somethin'. She's nice. But not as nice as Ms. Case. She gave me some cookies that one time and—"

Dean practically shoves the toast in his hands into Sam's mouth. "Ok. Okidoke, Sam. I get."

Sam sticks out his tongue but starts eating.

Pesky kid.

"Dad'll be down. I set his alarm." Three alarms actually, because Dean is nothing if not realistic.

This satisfies Sam. He chomps contentedly on his toast, getting butter all over his fingers. "He working again tonight?"

He's drinking again tonight, if the past few days have been a pattern, Dean thinks. "Yeah. He's working. Had to pick up someone's shift," Dean lies smoothly. It's a familiar thing. He tries not to worry about a few years from now, when Sam'll start asking questions and doubting. Not swallowing down these protective deceptions with a trusting smile.

Dean swallows and ducks back into the kitchen—partly to grab a napkin for Sam but majorly to shake the thoughts out of his head. He can hear the Dad stumbling around upstairs in his room.

Up by the second alarm. That's something.

"We're heading out to the car!" Dean yells. The thudding upstairs stops for a second, then recommences a tad bit more frantic. The front door opens—Sam's outside. Dean grabs a couple of napkins off the table.

"_Dean_!" Sam calls. "There's a weird boy staring at me!"

Dean almost chokes. Even if Sam's given no description, Dean jumps instantly to Castiel. It's the subject ghosting around his head, just waiting to be pulled to the forefront.

He sprints to the front of the house and lunges out the front door (almost toppling over Sam) just in time to see that junky ruster pull out of Castiel's driveway and speed off down the street. Black messy head in the passenger seat.

_Gone._

Dean stares after them until the car disappears around the bend.

"Dean?"

Dean startles, blinking rapidly and sucking in breath like he'd been abstaining from air. He hadn't seen anything—no startling visions or bursts of overwhelming darkness. Just the exhaust spinning up to the clouds and license plate—6D7 82E—he thinks. Useless. _Stupid. _He doesn't want anything to do with that boy.

_Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. _

Then it'll go away.

Dean turns back to Sam (ignoring the suspicion in his eyes that see so much more than they should) and swipes the napkins over Sam's chin. "Let's go."

"But—"

"Come on." Dean pushes him to the car. He's not having a discussion about this.

Sam looks like he's about to argue, but Dad comes out, rushing with his jacket half on and eyes still red. "Hurry up, boys," he snaps, "We can't be late." The more argumentative streak in Sam flares, but Dean steers him to the backseat before the generally volatile tension between Sam and Dad sets off.

He can't handle any more this morning. Dean can barely keep it together as it is.

* * *

Castiel doesn't know much about school. His foster family (from the time before Mr. Bobby Singer) chose to homeschool him. Most of what he knows comes from overly large textbooks and whatever half-destroyed, moth-eaten books he could find in their attic. Their version of homeschooling seemed to involve less formal teaching with the more conventional four subjects and more the sort of training drill instructors give.

So, when Mr. Bobby Singer hands him from out of the backseat a back pack (worn, two holes in the second-largest pocket and faded by age) stuffed with a bunch of notebooks a few pencils and money for lunch in the smallest pocket, Castiel is at a loss.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" He asks from the passenger seat.

Mr. Bobby Singer gives him a strange look. "What you usually do. It's a normal school."

"But…I've never.." he holds the bag in his hands, wonderingly, but there's no clues. Castiel doesn't know the first thing about school.

"You tryin' to tell me, you ain't ever been to school?" There is distinct disbelief in his voice.

Castiel has a feeling this a bad thing, but he answers honestly. "No."

Silence.

Castiel pushes himself to look up—at Mr. Bobby Singer, but the man has glued his eyes to the road. "Mr. B—"

"How many times I gotta tell you to call me Bobby? No need for anything more." He shakes his head. "What kind of idjits raised you?"

It's not the kind of question Castiel can answer.

The car goes quiet, besides the usual rustling and clashing of loose parts. Somehow Castiel has gotten used to the sounds, and they cover the silence reassuringly. It's only been a few months but he's already more comfortable in these patched-up seats, the smell of cheap after shave and engine grease, than he ever was in years of a structured chaos and regulated neatness.

Mr. Bobby Singer—Bobby—clears his throat. "There ain't nothing wrong with being polite, but I'm, well, it's—you see, it's different." The skin at the base of his neck is alarmingly red.

"I don't understand," Castiel says truthfully. But even if he can't understand the exact reasoning, he can follow an order.

Bobby (it almost sounds right) lowers his head. "Of course not. I don't have a real good explanation for you either. Sorry, boy." He looks back up and sighs—relieved?—and pulls the car into a slow stop. "We're here. This is it."

The building they've parked in front of is tall, wide and stark dark against the bright trees and bushes and sun. The one dark shadow in the landscape. There are children over the front lawn and sitting on the front steps. Bigger children, almost all of them, are twice as tall as Castiel if not more.

A flag flaps from the highest point, torn at the edges.

The children are laughing. A group of them balance on a railing and shove each other with smiles on their faces. Castiel can hear the mummers of conversations and exclamations and the pound of running feet from the car. It's loud. The sun is bright. Castiel has never been to school before.

A hand descends on Castiel's shoulders. It's Mr—_Bobby's_ hand. His grip is soft, and his gaze is softer. "It'll be fine, kid. You're smart. Don't pick any fights—but if you get into any trouble, call me. Like last time. I'll get here."

Castiel nods his head, pressing the loaded backpack to his chest. He doesn't want to leave the warm familiarity of the car. He has withstood so much more, but the foreignness of _school_ has him shrinking into his seat.

"Come on. They're just kids—like you. It'll be fine."

Somehow, Castiel doubts there are kids _like him_. With ghost orders hounding his head and the draw to a boy that most certainly _needs_ him (as much as Castiel does himself) but also certainly _hates_ him.

A boy that pulls up in front of their car and walks right past them without looking once through the windows. The smaller boy that Castiel saw this morning bounces alongside him, curious gaze peering in at Castiel in passing. He tugs at Dean's arm and must've said something because Dean stiffens then mutters something quickly that makes the younger boy's mouth shut and twist.

Dean's avoidance is too determined to be coincidental. Even as Castiel's eyes track him incessantly up the steps, past the smiling kids—_loud_ kids—and into the building, he doesn't flinch.

But there's a flicker, a quick check over his shoulder, before the door shuts—just for Castiel—that calms the panic in his chest.

"You got me Castiel?"

Castiel realizes he's been blocking out the conversation in his focus of Dean Winchester. He glances blankly at Bobby.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about! Forget Dean. Just do, uh, normal kid stuff. Okay? Have fun." The words definitely sound forced. But it's obvious to Castiel, Bobby needs to be on his way and Castiel is inhibiting that with his baseless aversion to _school_.

Castiel reminds himself that Dean will be there—even if he seems determined to avoid Castiel's existence—and that should be enough to push through his uneasiness. He takes a deep breath and prepares to exit the car, but just as his hand closes around the handle, a shrill _evil_ sound blares from the building. His whole body locks up and he throws his hands up over his ears.

"It's just a bell," Bobby rushes out. "It's...okay. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Of course. Normal. Castiel forces the adrenalin out of his body. _Why is this so hard?_

He opens the door and gets out, clumsily swinging the backpack over his shoulders. He must look more lost than usual because Bobby appears to be reconsidering his decision to leave Castiel alone at all.

"Maybe I should take you home. We could wait a few weeks—"

"I'm fine." Castiel snaps. He is. He can do this.

Bobby doesn't look so sure. But the glance he takes at his watch says he might have to let it go. Time won't allow for anything else.

"I'll be fine," Castiel says, suddenly assuring Bobby—their roles reversed.

While Castiel might not have looked very convincing (barely taller than the car's door, thin as sticks, clutching the straps of his backpack and pale as a sheet) Bobby chooses to believe. "Ok," he acquiesces, "We'll see how today goes. If it's too much, I'll find a different way."

Castiel doesn't know if he hopes for success or not, but he steps back from the car, closes the door, edges closer to the school's steps and onto the sidewalk. The multitude of students has drastically decreased. The remains are trailing through the front doors at the pace of a funeral dirge.

Bobby revs the engine, crawling forward until the passanger side window (open—no glass) is level with Castiel. "There should be an office right when you get in. I called in so just talk to the secretary, and she should get you sorted out. Eat lunch. Go to class. I'll be back around three. Wait for me here and don't get in anyone else's car."

It's a slightly frightened nod that Castiel gives in response. It seems to appease Bobby because one of those almost smiles (hidden beneath hair, wrinkles and hat) graces his face.

"Have a good day, Castiel," Bobby says, a bit of awe in his voice mixed with an edge of uncertainty. The exact combination swirling in Castiel's chest so that he can only blink tightly in reply.

This makes Bobby laugh, and that almost smile blooms full grown.

Castiel holds tight onto the sound (low—scratchy—new—full) and waves goodbye.

The car pulls off and away.

* * *

Sam's teacher, Ms. Middleton, gives Dean a weak smile as he hands his brother off with a few careful instructions whispered in his ear (the usual: _don't play rough, listen to the teacher and get me if there's trouble_) and a quick hug. It's a normal ritual—for them—but strange in comparison to the rest of Sam's classmates.

They're all hugging their parents goodbye.

"Later, Dean," Sam says, oblivious.

Dean smiles back, forcefully. "Be good Sammy, I'll be around."

Sam grimaces. "I told you not to call me that!" he whines.

"Yeah, whatever."

"_Deeeeaaaaan_."

"_Saaaaaammm_."

Sam narrows his eyes and crosses his arms.

Dean thinks about mimicking him, but the second bell rings—the tardy bell—and he doesn't have the time. "Lunch," he says, the typical _this-will-be-finished-later_-goodbye.

"Lunch," Sam confirms. He then proceeds to walk into the classroom with the most exaggerated, ridiculous swagger Dan has ever seen. Sam needs to cut down on the cartoons.

Dean's class is hallways away, on the other side of the school. This is his last year of "elementary" but when the building goes from K4 to 12th grade, the jump doesn't seem so big. The three levels, elementary, middle and high school are separated—so the little kids don't get eaten by the bigger kids or something.

Regardless, it still means Dean has to sprint, pushing his way through the clogged hallways, just to make it on time. Or, less late than his teacher, Mr. West, will let slide.

There are twenty some desks in his classroom, and about fifteen kids in them. The room is one of the bigger classrooms, with the huge windows that open inwards with a view of the school's courtyard. The blackboard is worn, but the desks are new enough not to give splinters every time you sit down. They even have a globe at the front of the room next to the overhead projector.

Dean doesn't hate school exactly.

He doesn't hate the lessons or the books (well maybe the boring ones—Mr. Popper's Penguins was stupid). It's the sitting still. It's the repetitive assignments. It's the kids who bully the smaller ones (but not him or Sam, they learned that real quick). But the whole thing is _necessary_.

Dad expects him to go—to look after Sam. So he will—he does. He even has a few friends and gets average grades. Still, he can't help but feel, as he slides into his desk, a desperate plummeting of his stomach to the floor and he resigns himself to yet another day of monotony.

Mr. West gives him a tired disapproving look. It's the middle of the school year, and he's used to this by now. He understands, and instead of writing up a detention slip (which Dean's technically earned with repeated tardies) he goes back to writing the daily agenda on the board, chalk dust falling into his already gray hair.

Dean grabs a notebook out of his bag settling into routine, and when he looks up again Benny is waving at him from across the room, a glimmer in his dark eyes that spells trouble. As if on cue, there's a yell from the back of the room.

It's Ash, jumping up and out of his desk and grabbing…his butt?

"There was a tack!" The boy Dean has the misfortune of being friends with yells, "Someone put a tack on my seat!"

Of course.

Benny sits straight now, facing the board, but there's a telltale smirk in the corner of his mouth.

Idiots. The pair of them. Dean doesn't know why he puts up with them.

The class erupts in laughter, but Mr. West doesn't seem to think it's so funny. "_Quiet_! Class has already started. _Ash_, sit back down in your—"

"But there's a take on it!"

"Then take it off."

"Mr. _West_—"

Before Ash get out another word, there's a brisk knock on the door. The class hushes, except for a few aggravated mutterings from Ash about negligence and endangerment. Mr. West shakes his head, disgusted, as he opens the door.

Dean doesn't really expect to see anyone but Ms. Casey collecting attendance.

When instead _Castiel_ walks through the door—it's liked he's been electrocuted.

_What the _hell_ is he doing here?_

The small mouthed woman that follows him in steps forward, whispers something in Mr. West's ear, then quickly backs off. Her heels click upon the linoleum on the way out the door.

Dean is trying to make a solution other than the obvious. He'd seen Castiel in the morning. In the car. Did his best to pretend he hadn't, and hoped _desperately_ he wouldn't see anymore of him.

Maybe they weren't in the same grade, he'd thought.

Maybe Castiel wasn't going to his school at all.

Surely he wouldn't be in Dean's class if he were.

And yet, here they are.

The class (Mr. West included) stares at Castiel.

He's tiny, standing at the front of the room, and there's a panic in his eyes as he gazes around. It's as if he's never seen a classroom before. His eyes flicker from thing to thing (desks to face to poster to wall to window to desks again) growing wider and wider at each switch.

But when he settles on Dean, the mad dash stops.

They're staring at each other.

Dean knows it must be embarrassingly obvious, but he doesn't look away. He is staring back, hoping he can get it across now—before any more can go wrong—that Castiel needs to _stay the hell away from him._

It's one thing to have crazy dreams or waking hallucinations in the comfort of his own home.

It's an entirely different thing to do any of that in _public_. Where people will see. And gasp or scream or call Dad. Where anything out of the ordinary is met with harsh reproach. Castiel has to understand. Dean _needs_ him to. If not only for himself, than for both of them. It feels…_wrong_ pushing Castiel away like that (as if the animosity Dean's forcing out, is somehow attacking him too), but Dean forces it down and _glares_ as cruel and uncaring as he can manage.

"Well class. Looks like we've got a new student." Mr. West clears his throat nervously. "What's your name, son?"

Castiel doesn't blink. He doesn't interrupt their gaze in the slightest—as if he's completely untouched by Dean's efforts. "Castiel," he says.

Dean is so screwed.


	5. Crescit Eundo

**A/N: **Finally. I'm a little late on this one. Again. But I do think it's my favorite chapter so far. Cas and Dean actually talk, so there's a plus. I'm trying to lengthen chapters here, since it takes me so long to put them out. Thanks to everyone who has deigned to favorite, follow or review. This is a work-in-progress so I appreciate the patience. Please enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

Castiel's first impression of his new school and new classmates is largely overshadowed by Dean Winchester. He had intended, as Bobby asked, to put a larger effort into "normal" things. Whatever, exactly, that entailed. When he walked in the front door and bee-lined to the front office, his intentions were to focus on _school_. He had entertained the possibility of running into Dean in the halls or sitting by him at lunch (if he was particularly daring) or catching glimpses of him throughout the day in the crowds of irrelevant children. It seemed unlikely and idiotic to hope for any one of those things. Bobby surely would have arranged it for him to be in a separate class. Or fixed his schedule to _avoid_ any and all Winchesters.

However, it would seem that is not the case.

No, because Castiel is currently holding the most intense staring contest with Dean Winchester right now at the front of the classroom he has been assigned to.

Castiel is not dense. He is not an idiot. Not well versed in social interaction, but that's due to lack of exposure—not competency. So, he understands that Dean is staring _not_ to befriend him, or assure him, but with the intention of making him stay away. Of alienating him. But Castiel can also see, beneath the anger, fear. And that gives him confidence.

The older man with the graying hair and deeper wrinkles than Bobby smiles thinly at him. "I'm Mr. West," he says with a wavering that speaks discomfort. "Welcome to the class, Castiel."

With all the guarded glares he's getting from the students and the shaky wariness from the teacher, Castiel doesn't feel much welcome at all.

"You can have a seat over by the window. Third row down," Mr. West instructs.

The seat he is pointing to is two seats behind Dean and one to the right of him. The only open seat in his direct vicinity. It would seem fate is on Castiel's side today.

He walks to the seat through the uneven aisle and barrage of glances from faces unfamiliar and scrutinizing. He ignores them to the best of his ability.

"Just copy down the daily agenda and try to follow along. If you need any extra assistance, raise your hand, okay?" Mr. West instructs, a bit firmer and more relaxed now that Castiel is settled in his seat.

Castiel doesn't know what else to do but nod. His eyes stray back to Dean, but all he can see is the tension in his shoulders and the wave of brown-golden hair on his head. It doesn't show much, but Castiel finds it much more interesting than the rest of the classroom—or its occupants. There's a boy, towards the front of the class that keeps sneaking inquisitive glances back to Castiel and Dean. Then, next to him, there's another boy not sitting and frowning at him.

It all makes him uneasy. He pulls his backpack in front of him like a shield and scrunches closer around himself in the rickety seat. He doesn't like all the people, or the bright screaming posters on the walls. He doesn't understand what he's supposed to do. Just sit here and listen? But there's no talking but the scattered too-quiet conversations passing from child to child. He's already restless and it's been a mere minute. It's more the need to move, to run away from all this oddness than anything. It's not comfortable. It doesn't make sense to him. It's almost too much. He can't…he can't…

"Whoa, dude, breathe,"

Castiel looks up. The standing one, with the weird hair, is next to him. Too close. Eyes wide. His mouth moving and sound comes out, but Castiel can't hear it. Just a loud beating. Getting faster and faster and _faster. _

Stop.

He's not doing this here. He's fine. He can breathe. There is air in his lungs. Even if it feels like he's choking he's _not. _It's all in his head. It's all in head. It's all—

Castiel jumps up. He's out of his seat and out the door in seconds, running running running.

He can breathe. He can.

The hallways are empty. Nothing but walls and closed doors. No people. No children (loud laughing children) nothing. Empty.

Castiel breathes.

The thumping sound slows then quiets. His feet stop their angry assault of the floor and he's standing, alone in a dark dead-end. There's a door marked STAIRWELL 3B and a flickering, dying light on the ceiling. Castiel takes a shaky step forward, legs shaking, and slumps down the wall to the dirty wrapper covered floor.

He's really messed up. Really, really bad this time.

Castiel folds his head into his arms and tries to keep his sobs from echoing around the unwashed walls. He doesn't want anyone to find him here. _Why can't he just be normal?_

* * *

Dean doesn't want to care. He's resigned himself to not caring in fact, because inviting anymore complications into his life would be monumentally stupid. If he was smart, he would stay in his seat. If he was smart, he would bury his head in his notebook and pretend he didn't notice. If he was smart, he would shove that concern, that useless, stupid concern, far away and go back to work.

It turns out Dean's not all that smart.

As Castiel streaks out of the class, like fires are lighting under his feet, Dean jerks up out of his desk. It's like a compulsion. He doesn't even realize he's at the front of the room, feet from the door, until Mr. West grabs his arm and yanks him into a stop.

"Where do you think you're going Mr. Winchester?" Mr. West demands. The intimidating effect is lost by the overwhelmed panic in his eyes.

Dean would answer, he's got respect for Mr. West at least, but conveniently he doesn't have one.

The class stares at him. Mr. West stares at him.

Dean can't look away from the door.

"I'm…" he struggles to put words to the need, but realizes there are no concrete reasons. A lie then. "He's my neighbor. His, uh, guardian asked me to look after him."

This is _not_ at all what he wanted. He was supposed to be keeping his distance. He was supposed to ignore him—forget about him. Not chase after him!

Mr. West nods slowly, then releases Dean's arm. "Of course. Don't take too long."

It's almost too easy.

Dean doesn't run out of the classroom, not like Castiel. He doesn't want to draw any more attention to himself. But there is a pressure in his gut that makes it so hard not to sprint out of there. It's an indescribable impulse.

Outside, in the hallways, there's no trace of Castiel, but Dean saw which way he turned from the classroom. There're only two options in this part of the hallway anyways. Dean keeps himself to a quick walk for about four seconds, but when he's out of sightline of the classroom door, he allows himself a jog, then an almost sprint. It doesn't matter if he has no idea where Castiel is, or why he left, or what he's doing, or that this is most definitely a giant mistake on his part.

Dean could see the fear in his eyes as he fled the room. Pure, blatant terror.

He remembers his own experience, the first day at this school in a new town they'd just moved into only a few weeks after Mom's funeral. All the eyes and the watching and the unfamiliarity. Feeling out of place—the only one who didn't belong.

Of course, he didn't flip shit and run out of the class, but Castiel has never struck Dean as normal.

He resists the urge to call out for him. Dean doesn't know why this has him so panicked. Just minutes ago he was determined to ignore Castiel. It should have been the easiest thing to stay uncaring and in his seat, but here he is, streaking through the hallways anyways.

It's ridiculous.

Completely irrational.

And that's when the crying starts.

Or maybe not starts, but _Dean_ starts to hear them. And he can't keep the shouts in any longer. "Castiel!"

The already soft sobbing hitches and muffles.

Castiel is crying.

Dean was running before, but now he's sprinting. He follows the noises, the stifled pathetic sobs, down the corridor and into the dead-end staircase. And there he is. Curled up into himself, so small Dean would have looked right over him if he wasn't searching so desperately. His shoulders are shaking, and all Dean can see of his head is the tuft of black hair peeking out from crossed arms. He's folded into the corner of the dingiest stairwell and even though the sobbing has stopped, Dean has his doubts about the crying.

Now that he's here, he doesn't know what to do. There's a very real impulse to kneel down on the dirty ground and wrap his arms around the smaller boy, but surely that would be too much. He just met Castiel three days ago. They barely know each other's names.

He couldn't feel less incompetent if he were kicking his feet against the ground and twiddling his thumbs. He's just standing there, useless, catching his breath, and gawking.

Why even leave if this is all he's capable of?

Dean tries to think what Dad would do in this situation, but berating Castiel for crying in public and yanking him up by the shirt and dragging him back to class isn't an appealing option. Neither is standing here for the foreseeable future doing nothing.

"Castiel?"

The tiny shaking bundle on the floor flinches.

"It's me. Dean."

Like that's a question. Dean can't think of another person who'd chase after a stranger for no apparent reason.

As soon as he says his name though, Castiel shudders and Dean gets a quick peek of red-rimmed blue eyes before Castiel buries further into his arms. "Why are you here?" His voice cracks a little, but Dean tries not to notice.

As he still doesn't have a good answer for that question, Dean diverts. "Why did you run out?"

This is obviously not the right question because Castiel's fists (smaller than Dean's) clench together. "That is none of your concern, Dean. I wasn't bothering you."

And yes, this hits vaguely like a slap in the face because Dean is thinking the same exact thing. His own argument come back to bite him, and the guilt that shouldn't be because Dean doesn't want Castiel to like him. He _doesn't._

"Return to the classroom. I'll be on my way shortly," Castiel says, but his words waver.

That's it. That's his out.

Dean doesn't take it. "I'm not going back, okay? So you can give it a rest." He takes a tentative step forward. "Just…why are you crying?"

Castiel's head shoots up, and his eyes are livid. "I am not—you don't want to be here. You've demonstrated that plainly enough. I have no need for you to stay."

Dean didn't think that would hurt that much. It's true. But it does.

"_Leave_," Castiel hisses.

Dean bristles. "I am not leaving."

He doesn't know when exactly he started arguing _against _the thing he wanted in the first place, but he's chosen his side now, and going back on it would be stupid. Sammy would laugh in his face. And, Dean can't…he can't just leave Castiel in this dismal hallway to cry alone. It's unthinkable.

Castiel has other ideas. He's glaring harder than Dean could've imagined, and he wouldn't surprised if lasers suddenly appeared and turned him into a pile of ash.

Stubborn. But not as stubborn as Dean. Castiel looks away first, a frown twisting his lips.

Dean doesn't smile, even if he wants to—just a little bit. He edges closer, and when Castiel doesn't flinch away or run away crying (again) he squats down and settles against the wall next to him. He's pretty sure there's a piece of gum precariously close to his neck, but that's not exactly important at the moment. Castiel has his face turned away so Dean can't make out an expression there. He's relying purely on instinct now and his experience with Sam.

His brother isn't as difficult as this. He rarely cries anymore. And cheering him up, is second-nature. This isn't the same at all. The tricks Dean uses to put a smile on Sam's face (lewd jokes, walks to the park, reading his favorite book, etc. etc.) aren't going to work with Castiel. They're two different people. And Dean doesn't even know what's wrong with Castiel in the first place.

The silence isn't all awkward. It sure as hell isn't relaxed either, but some combination of the two. Dean knows he should say something, or do something, but comforting other people isn't exactly second nature to him. Dad has never been the hugging type. Mom would maybe know what to do, but even if she was still alive, he couldn't ask her. He's on his own.

Dean clears his throat. Castiel doesn't move. Dean clears it again. Castiel does nothing.

This is getting him nowhere.

He's just going to be blunt then. That's always been his advantage. He's just going to ask Castiel to come back to class with him, and feign normality. He's just going to tell it to the kid straight, how tough starting a new school is, and that he should probably man up if he wants to stay. He's just going to give some quick tips (stuff Dean learned when _he _was the new kid) and then they can all be on their merry way.

That's all he's going to say.

Except, somehow, what comes out is, "I don't hate you."

It's isn't like Castiel _asked_ in the first place, and then there's the fact that for the past three days Dean has _wanted_ to hate him. Very contradictory things. And yet, he keeps going.

"I just wanted to make you stay away—not because, well, not because of _you_, but because I can't… I can't really deal with this stuff. And I don't…" it's all starting to stop making much sense. Dean can feel himself dropping into senseless mumblings, but he seems to have also lost control of his mouth. "It's been going on for a while, but I can just ignore it when it's me. That's fine. That's easy. But then you came, and it got worse, and it wasn't so easy to ignore anymore and I don't know what's going on and Sam's starting to get suspicious. If Dad finds out, or if anyone finds out, it's going to be horrible. Just, _bad_, and I can't handle that." Dean takes a deep breath. "I'm not trying to justify it," because that would be useless, "I'm just saying…"

"If this is an apology, it's a very complicated one."

Dean pauses. Castiel is still turned away, but the tension has bled out of his body. "Yeah? Well, I'm not so good at this word thing."

"It was a so-so job. I think you would have gotten there eventually."

A smile creeps up on Dean and surprises the hell out of him. "Really? I wasn't even half-in yet."

"It's a good thing I stopped you, then, or you would have gone on forever."

Dean elbows Castiel in the ribs. Surprisingly, he doesn't fix him with the stare of death or skitter off to the other corner of the room. Actually, he turns around and Dean can see his lips twitch in the smallest smile Dean has ever seen.

It's slightly marred by the tear tracks on Castiel's face, but it's still the first Dean has ever seen from him.

"So," Dean says, because they can't go grinning on at each other like idiots for the rest of the day, "Are you going to tell me what happened?" As Castiel said earlier, it's really none of his business—not really. But that doesn't stop him from wanting to know—to understand—to prevent it from ever happening again.

The small smile falters, as Castiel ducks his head, putting his chin on his knees. "I panicked," he mutters. And there's a frustration there that Dean can understand completely. "I said I could do this—I thought I could do this, and I just…I just _couldn't_." Dean's not sure, but he thinks there might be tears welling in his eyes again. "It all just…overwhelmed me." Castiel's eyes flick up to Dean's, like he's checking for something, as he whispers, like an awful confession, "I've never been to _school_ before."

Dean doesn't believe him. A kid his age that's never been to school? One that talks like he swallowed a dictionary? Yeah, right.

But Castiel's eyes are narrowed, like he's scared, expecting something…a rebuke maybe or disgust, and that's not something you lie about.

"You've never been to school." Dean says slowly, digesting it.

Castiel shakes his head.

"And all the people? They just…freaked you out?"

Castiel blinks, then slowly nods again.

"Does that happen a lot? The panicking?"

"Only in crowds," Castiel admits, "or in places I'm not familiar with."

Well that sounds…horrible. Dean doesn't ask why. It seems like a stupid question. Or maybe, just too invasive. This is more than he ever expected to know about Castiel, and asking for more seems like pushing his luck.

"It's not usually that bad," Castiel continues. "I didn't anticipate it. I believed I could handle the new environment, but…"

Dean leans over, pressing their two arms together and the length of their sides. It's a gesture he's only really extended to Sam, but here it feels right. Castiel stiffens, and fixes Dean with a look that is all sharp surprise. Dean swallows, and tries to push down the guilt (I'm sorry I didn't really want to push you away it was the only plausible option, only thing I've been taught, don't look so lost, it hurts) and light, indescribable feeling floating him off the floor.

Neither really goes away.

Dean clears his throat. "We should go back to class before Mr. West sends someone else after us." That would definitely be problematic. "Do you feel like you can go? Or, I could…?"

"Mr.—Bobby said that I should call him if anything were to happen, but I don't…"

"You don't want to disappoint him."

Castiel blinks, and stares at Dean as if he had just grown a second head.

"I mean, that's just—that's how I would feel. Not that you did disappoint him. It wasn't your fault. I just—"

"No," Castiel says firmly, and his face smoothes into another small smile. "That's exactly it. But I think," He pauses for a moment, and his eyes close. Dean takes in his deep inhale and breathy exhale, then, "I can do it. I'm expecting it this time."

Dean isn't exactly sure. He's thinking of showing Castiel to the office anyway and calling for him, but the thought of anyone doing that to _him_? With _Dad_? He can't even imagine it. "If you're sure." He almost wants to offer his help. Tell Castiel to just tap him on the shoulder if it gets too much. But the words stick in his throat and Castiel looks away—not expecting them.

They both get to their feet, and Dean watches Castiel, because he's definitely a little unsteady on them. There are still traces of tears on his face too, but his eyes are less red. Dean sighs, leans forward and pulls the edge of his shirt upwards, to wipe the stains off. It seems like the least he can do. This time he expects the surprised reaction, and rolls his eyes when Castiel gives this quick little gasp.

"Calm down. You've got stuff on your face. I'm just getting it off."

"…Of course, Dean."

Now it's Dean's turn to stiffen. He doesn't know why. It's not like Castiel hasn't said his name before. Maybe it's the way that the tension eases out of Castiel's body, and the…trust in which he accepts Dean's help. Like they're age-old friends—like family. And that's when Dean realizes, none of this is weird to him. And it should be. Wiping the tears off a boy he just met in the dirtiest stairwell in the school. It should be setting off red alarms in his head, or at least an uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

It doesn't. Dean's wearing a smile (genuine and filled with teeth) and is almost tempted for a second to put off going back to class just to sit here with Cas for a little bit longer.

_Cas_? When did that happen? _His name is _Castiel, he reminds himself firmly. And they aren't friends. Not nearly.

Dean drops his shirt, and barely takes a second to check that the tear tracks are gone before stomping off towards the class.

"Come on," he barks. "Let's go."

The slow sounds of footsteps behind him are the only reply.


	6. Cum Gladiis Et Fustibus

**A/N: **Okay. Please don't kill me. I'm sorry this is so late, but undying gratitude to my beta for saving this chapter from its first draft and atrocious lack of commas. A little bit of backstory in this one (but not too much, because I am evil). Please R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

Somehow, Castiel manages to last the rest of the week. Of course, lasts seems almost too light a word as the experience is anything but pleasant. There are no more incidents like the first day. He keeps his head through the acclimation. But there are no more sit downs with Dean either. No laughing together or sharing shy new smiles. No comfort. No concern.

Well, that's untrue. On Wednesday (Tuesday passes like an empty breath and Castiel is not loathe to see it go), Castiel eats lunch by himself in the only empty table pressed close to the cafeteria's far wall. He understands that this is odd, the rest of the children have grouped together and stuck close, eating loudly and wildly with each other at whatever table is theirs to claim. It all seems very barbaric to him, so quietly chewing on the hot lunch (what appears to be a hot dog and fries but Castiel has his doubts) is almost welcome. The solitude is comfortable. However, he can't shake off the glances Dean is throwing his way from the table across the room as he eats with two other, loud, rambunctious boys.

That might not be concern. Castiel likes to think it is, but more likely than not it is pity.

Castiel shrugs his shoulders up and eats like he can't sense Dean's eyes, and there's not a bitter taste to the soggy potatoes. It's recognition at least. Dean hasn't gone back to ignoring him. There is no cold shoulder like the first day, but a distance that Castiel cannot comprehend nor push through. He doesn't know if he wants to.

It is incredibly frustrating.

Couple that with the behavior of his classmates (and, unsurprisingly a few members of the school's staff); Castiel does not have a very good week. He is used to the suspicious glares. He got them a lot at his foster home from the other children (always changing, run away or transferred) and their "parents" whenever they actually _looked_ at him. He got them on the street on the rare errand when he was allowed to leave the house. It's not a new thing. He doesn't exactly understand them. From his perspective Castiel is made up of all the same stuff. Brain, bones, skin, muscles, tendons, etc...He's just never…fit in.

There's always been a tension between Castiel in the rest of the world. A waiting. A watching. To see who would explode first. He's been treated like a ticking time bomb for most of his life, and it's not exactly inaccurate. Castiel is aware that he is capable of dangerous acts, and even more so aware that he doesn't have much control of them.

The incident that brought Castiel into Bobby's care is a prime example, but there have been others.

Sally Adams, who lived across the street from his foster home, was the first sign. Castiel's "parents" used to force him on play dates with her—with her flippy dresses and hair bonnets and smile that was sweet until it turned cruel. She loved to push him down into the street, right before incoming traffic, and scream when he managed to throw himself out of the way. He'd asked her to stop (confused and unable to understand why someone would purposefully cause him pain and take pleasure in it) and she wouldn't. He'd tried to hide from her one time, but was reprimanded at later. The last time Sally Adams tried to throw him down onto the cement, the world got very bright and very loud. Like static in his ears and the sun in his eyes magnified to an unforgiving intensity. Anything and everything else had vanished, and when the white noise died down, Sally Adams was sitting on the grass, crying her eyes out and cradling the seared, angry red palms of her hands like evidence.

Then there was the strange, dirty man in the alley that tried to take the Castiel's groceries. This was after Sally Adams, and Castiel had begun to suspect (along with the chiding directive of _Dean Winchester_ in his head) that there was something very, _very _wrong with him after all. Something dangerous. He was careful, cautious and unbearably confused.

But his caution wasn't enough when the man turned desperate and uncaring. All the distance and defenses set between Castiel and the world could not last that crawling, frantic assault. As grubby hands yanked him forward, and his knees scraped the ground, Castiel's vision went white again and the roar of an indecipherable chorus of voices took over. When reality crashed back in, the man had disappeared. No sign, no trace. Not even the filthy, rags remained.

Castiel had been scared and guilty, burdened with the fact that _no,_ he was not the same. He had never been the same, and he had to be very, _very_ careful to never do something like that again.

So the glares and avoidances from the students of his new school didn't bother him. If they didn't get close, he wouldn't hurt them. The distance was a safety measure, and one Castiel is not willing to give up. If only it didn't feel so lonely on his end.

But Castiel is used to that too.

"How was school, boy?" Bobby asks. It's Friday, and he's sitting at his seat at the kitchen table, mostly buried in a book (_Unnatural Phenomena in the 1800s_). It's a passive silence though, and that means his eyes are peaking over the top of the cover at Castiel.

It's dinner time, and Castiel is exhausted. They're eating chili again, and while Bobby doesn't seem to mind it, it's been five days straight of ground beef and beans; Castiel is starting to get sick of it. Plus, after the day he's had, Castiel is ready to fall asleep right into the murky red liquid. But this is his trial week, and Bobby _will_ pull him out if he deems it necessary—as he's been careful to remind Castiel of every day.

Today hasn't been a good day.

Castiel is going to have to lie.

He can brush over the silent treatment he's been getting from everyone (possibly Dean included). He can brush over the not so subtle shoves in the hallway. He can brush over the boy who walked over to his table at lunch and swiped his fruit cup without asking (He doesn't even like canned pineapple, and would have given it if asked anyway) but the…incident at the end of the school day needs to be buried and obliterated or Bobby is going to keep Castiel cooped up at home away from Dean and that just isn't good enough for him.

The boys involved (four—unfamiliar—taller than average—calluses on their hands) had cornered him outside of Mr. West's classroom as the last bell of the day rang. There were plenty of bodies in hallway to obscure the confrontation, and no one had really taken notice. Castiel is usually the last out of the classroom anyway. There hadn't been any touching. Not really. Just aggressive looming and the intuition of violence. They'd said a few things. _Weird. Strange. Crybaby. Freak_. But Castiel hadn't said a word back. Hadn't done anything. He smoothed his face into schooled blankness and waited them out. It only took a few minutes for them realized they wouldn't get a rise out of him before the biggest of the trio spat a gob of yellowish spit onto the floor by Castiel's feet and they took off.

It wasn't a big deal.

Castiel isn't even that shaken by it. He was…upset initially. Conflicted. Because Castiel had wanted, in that moment with the three of them leering over him like shadows, to push off the wall and break out of that blank, calm façade and make them all disappear. He'd controlled himself. But it was a very close thing.

Too close.

He can't let Bobby find out.

Castiel fears his reaction. Disappointment? Fear? He doesn't want to think of it.

"School was…interesting." Castiel flicks his eyes up from his chili to Bobby—no reaction—then back down. "We are focusing on literature." This last part is true. They are studying novels in class. Castiel has read them all, but he brought home the copies of the most recent book, anyway.

Bobby grunts, flips the page and goes on "reading." Castiel eats a few spoonfuls of the chili before Bobby asks off-handedly. "Make any friends?"

Castiel grits his teeth. Of course he hasn't. And at this rate, he never will. "No," he says and stuffs another spoonful in so when Bobby looks questioningly over the top of his book he has an excuse not to answer.

"Well…They treating you alright?"

A blaring _no_ again, but this is the place Castiel can't mess up. He clears his throat then tries to say, as blasé as he can manage, "Yes, of course," then lowers his eyes to the table, because if he has to look Bobby in the eyes, he will surely see through Castiel's feeble web of deceptions.

Bobby's book is set down on the table. "You don't sound so sure about that."

Castiel tries not to let himself react. He lifts his eyes and stares evenly at Bobby's squinted ones. "Why wouldn't I be?"

They hold each other's gaze for a while longer. And Castiel's hand is shaking under the table with the struggle of keeping his face flat, not guilty—not anything at all. Just when Castiel is sure Bobby is going to call him on it, his guardian blinks, and the book is picked up off the table again.

"Sorry, sorry. Call me a paranoid old bast—man, but I'm just trying to look out for you."

Castiel doesn't doubt that. And that's why, as his lie is bought, a twisting nausea assaults his gut. He shoves up from the table. "I'm finished."

"You've barely touched it."

Castiel has taken six or so mouthfuls, and, yes, the bowl is still almost full. "Ate a large lunch," he lies again.

Bobby squints at him, but goes back to reading after a second of eye contact. "Don't come down here looking for a midnight snack. The kitchen'll be closed."

"I won't," Castiel says as clears his place at the table, then before heading back up to his room, "Will you be home tonight?" He hasn't been all this week. Bobby leaves before Castiel goes to bed, and comes home in time to take him to school in the morning, but when Castiel wakes up in the middle of night (habit—or maybe method) there is no one else in the house.

Bobby grunts from the behind the book, "No."

Castiel swallows thickly. He's beginning to walk away, when Bobby stops him with a word. "_Sorry_."

There isn't anything that Castiel can put to words to describe the lightening in his chest, so he just nods (even if Bobby isn't looking at him) and keeps on walking.

The weekend comes, and the weekend goes without any real problems. Sam is putting up his usual sulk when Dad comes home at a decent hour on Saturday and takes them out to practice shooting. Dean doesn't say much. It's the same argument played out with different lines and the same faces that will inevitably come to the same end. Sam will sit in sulky silence in the backseat, while Dad grips the steering wheel just a little too hard and glares through the windshield like the sky has wronged him terribly. Dean will sit in the passenger seat, his seat, and stare at his hands like he doesn't see it. Like he doesn't notice. Like he doesn't understand. Like it doesn't bother him at all.

Things return to normal on Sunday, and Sam is all too eager in the morning to try and make pancakes with whatever scattered supplies they have in the kitchen. They don't have milk, Dad forgot again, and they end up eating a stale package of cookies from back when they first moved in.

It's all so utterly routine and normal, so that when Monday takes a turn, Dean isn't even surprised. There's only so much easy going you can have until it all takes a dive into _screwedtohell_.

Dean takes it like a champ.

The problem arises during the break, after lunch, when the teachers release the kids onto the blacktop. It's all very chaotic. Dean remembers his first recess at this school, only weeks after Mom's death. The kids had sprinted out then, rushing off to their designated slides and swings or hopscotches drawn in shaky chalk over the concrete. He'd stood stock still frozen in the entrance, utterly out of his depth. He realized then he wasn't...like them anymore. He didn't have intense urges to play tag around the colorful plastic play sets. He didn't feel like giggling mindlessly, sprinting around for no discernible reason. He wasn't inclined to throw a ball around or dig for worms or any of the mindless, _uselessness _the rest of the kids were amusing themselves with. If he ever had, Mom's death had killed the urge.

Now, he has Ash and Benny to lug him off to the baseball diamond, because Dean's got killer aim and never misses a ball.

His two idiots are arguing (again—as always) while they walk through the masses of students. The baseball diamond is fenced off, back by the playground and past the blacktop. It's the farthest point from the school's doors.

"I'm just sayin' if you _wanted_ to, you should've just asked. It's rude if you just rub your grubby hands all over someone's experiment—"

"_What_ experiment? It was a bunch of crap shoved together. How was I supposed ta know it was important?"

"That's what I just said! You should've asked me."

"Asked you what the hell you were doing diggin' through the garbage again?"

"It was one time, Benny. _One time_."

"And I never want you to touch me again."

"I washed my hands!"

Dean's about to tell them to shut up because _obviously_ it was another one of Ash's crazy experiments. Besides, Benny really can't talk about people digging through the trash, because he used to stick his fingers in other people's noses and only stopped when one of them stuck their fingers back. He doesn't interrupt though, because as he's lazily scanning the blacktop, he latches onto something that doesn't exactly compute.

There's plenty of people out here, moving and jumping and just acting like normal kids, but this stands out to him like a spotlight. Like everything else is washed out in gray, and this is playing out in vibrant color.

There's Castiel, leaning against the brick of the school's outer wall, in one of the nooks and crannies, and there's four boys standing around him. Dean thinks, for one quick second, that maybe Castiel managed to make some friends after all and won't be sitting alone at that table at lunch so Dean can maybe stop _staring_ at him all the time. Except that the kids are obviously older, middle school at least, and the expressions on their faces are anything but friendly.

They're only a few yards away, but with the girls playing double dutch and screaming out rhymes at the top of their lungs, Dean can't hear a thing. He also can't hear Ash and Benny bickering in the background anymore, but maybe that's because the world has narrowed down to the twist in Castiel's mouth and the wrinkle shoved right between his eyebrows.

Dean doesn't know what they're saying. He can imagine though, with the way Castiel always eats alone, or the ice between him and every other student. He can imagine that with his big, strange, bright eyes and impassive "_I-know-all-your-secrets_" gaze, they've got a lot of shit to say to Castiel. And all he can think about, playing like a loop in the back of his head, is the way Castiel cowered in that hallway, tears on his face and desperately afraid.

So it doesn't really matter what they're saying. Really, Dean couldn't care less. When he stalks forward, already sizing up each of the four boys and picking a first target (the smug one with the cocky leer on his face and enough swagger that he must be the leader of their group), it doesn't matter if he shouldn't, or he'll get in trouble, or he hasn't spoken to Castiel in a week. In his head, it's clear as day what he has to (what he's going to) do.

"Hey, Cas," he calls, (it rolls off his tongue like it is meant to be there) and Dean doesn't have enough time to shove it back down before all four of the wannabe bullies turn around (and they're all taller than him—definitely 8th graders and up). But Dean doesn't really take notice of them. He's watching Castiel.

"H—Hello, Dean."

Dean hates the tremor in Castiel's voice.

"Whoa! Look a' that. Robot here actually has a friend." It's the smug one, and the rest of his buddies cackle like it's the funniest joke they've ever heard.

Dean thinks about denying it. He thinks about snapping that _no,_ he is not Castiel's friend. He just has to look out for the guy. _And_ hasn't been able to think straight about anything else since the second he laid eyes on Castiel. There's always this need to be closer to him. When they're together, Dean actually smiles.

So, he does the only logical thing. He turns around, putting himself right in front of Castiel, (between him and the idiots chuckling to themselves), then he slugs the ringleader right in his smug ugly mouth.

Dean has no lack of confidence. Dad's drilled self-defense back from his Marine days into both his sons since they could walk. So when Dean strikes, he throws his punch with all the weight in his body from his feet to his fist, and hits the guy right in the neck. The sucker drops.

There's a pause. Maybe because Dean hasn't hit his growth spurt yet, and just decked someone with a full six inches on him with_ one_ punch. The other three, just stare at him, mouths still gaping, for about three seconds. Dean cracks a slick little smile, and they come rushing at him.

_Dumbasses_.

Or, maybe he's the dumbass, because that was just a lucky hit he got there. While the other three are idiots, they're bigger than him. However, Dean has learned, in situations like these, that you gotta stick to your guns.

This isn't a cheap movie, so they don't come at him one by one. It's a surge, and it's dirty. He gets kneed in the gut while simultaneously punched in the shoulder. Dean rolls with it though and comes right back with a swing to the shortest guys ribs, and he still manages to duck an attempt for his head. They're wild and unruly and have no method whatsoever. Dad would be ashamed to see him lose. Dean grits his teeth backing up again, but there's only so far he can go because Castiel is assumedly huddling behind him as close to the wall as possible.

Until, he isn't.

Dean hadn't thought when he met Castiel (all wiry limbs and skinnier than Sam) how hard he could throw a punch—it wasn't really a question at the time. But when Castiel rushes in, just a blue and black blur, and tackles the closest attacker, he can only think _damn_, _I had no idea_.

Odds are suddenly looking up.

The grin on Dean's face is no longer for show. He can hear Castiel slam punch after merciless punch into the guy's side and almost winces. But the guy deserves it, and Dean's not going to feel guilty. They're just a bunch of playground bullies that can't take what they're dishing out—well, Dean'll make them.

He slides past a thrown arm (aiming, in theory for his stomach), grabs it, wrenches it back and throws the body attached to it to the ground. Dean's a strong kid. He has to be. And he's just about to shove a palm up the last guy's nose, when the staff finally catches on that there's a brawl going down on the black top, and the teachers are swarming all over them.

A panting PE teacher (complete with sweat bands and shorts) grabs onto Dean from behind, yanking up his arms and screaming for him to _STOP_. He drags Dean back, away from the four upperclassmen and Castiel, who is struggling with his own restraints. The nameless middle school teacher grappling for a handhold on Castiel, and Dean is _damn_ impressed to see that he can't find one.

Castiel thrashes around, still managing to drill the guy he'd taken down to the blacktop. His eyes are wild—on fire. Ice blue fire. And there's a hysterical urgency to every jerk and pull.

"Cas," he says, before he can really think about it, "I'm fine. It's fine. You can stop now."

Dean doesn't know why he says it. It's sounds so stupid and of course Castiel isn't doing this for him. No one does stuff like this for him. And they're not even friends. Dean has made that clear.

But as soon as the words come out of his mouth, Castiel stills. He stops trying to throw off the frazzled group of teachers (because one proved to be insufficient) and goes nearly limp. He's not looking at Dean, just letting himself be pulled off and away. They're in trouble for sure. Of the four guys, only one is standing, and the bastard unfortunate enough to be under Castiel doesn't even look conscious.

But Dean can't help it. Before they're separated entirely in the chaos, he yells, "You did good! Thanks for the help!"

And the incredulous joy on Cas' face really makes it worth it.


	7. Audeamus

**A/N:** Okay, I'm just going to start by saying _thank you so much_ to everyone who has stuck with this story so far. It's one of my first attempts at a longer, plotted work, and it's been more difficult than I anticipated. Every favorite and follow and review has motivated me and kept me writing. I hope you continue to read and enjoy this story, because it has only just begun.

* * *

_Things could be worse. _

All three of them have been sitting in the principal's small, humid office for at least half an hour (in complete and utter silence). Dad hasn't uttered a word to Dean. He just sits, impassive and stony faced beside him, with the portent of a storm brewing. Dean's fingers are trying to strangle each other in his lap, and Dad refuses to look at him. Cas keeps shooting him these worried little glances behind Dad's back, and Dean is trying his best to look confident and calm for the both of them.

In his head, Dean is waiting for the doubt to set in. His chronic "common sense." He's waiting for Cas' gaze on his face to turn uncomfortable and unwanted, but, as the silent seconds tick by, it just…_doesn't_. Every quick glance is reminding him—over and over—of the despair in Cas' tears, the determintin of his eyes and the bravery in the way he threw himself into that fight and saved Dean's ass. It's all flickering thorugh his head like evidence, and Dean realizes that the wall he erected the moment they met lies in ruins around him. Every moment with Cas has torn it down, piece by piece. Dean put up a good fight, but this last attack, Cas fighting at his back and the pure, raw connection that Dean has always understood better than words, blasted that stubborn wall into oblivion.

Its absence is like an exhale. Dean can finally breathe deeply again. When he looks back at Cas, he's sure—he's determined. They're friends now. They're…_family_. And he doesn't have to pretend anymore.

The conviction of the moment suddenly breaks, as the door behind them creaks open on its rusty hinges. Dean tries not to wince. Dad doesn't even blink. Cas straightens up in his chair, and his eyes lock onto the desk in front of them.

Their principal, a young guy with no noticeable gray in his hair and an ever-present, disapproving frown, steps into his office. Dean doesn't know what kind of power play he's going for, coming in late, but it makes him squirm in his seat.

"Hello," the principal says, settling behind his desk and crisply folding his hands in front of him. He's smiling thinly, and it's very clear he's not happy. "John Winchester?"

Dad nods once and makes a grunting affirmation.

The principal huffs a little then turns his flat brown eyes to Cas. "And you. Where's your…" he looks down for a second and pages through a file on his desk, "guardian?" Dean doesn't like the way he looks at Cas. Like he's just a nuisance. Like he's insignificantly useless. But he's not about to throw a punch after being hauled into the office for doing the same exact thing just an hour before.

"He did not respond to my attempts to contact him," Cas answers in a monotone. Dean can now notice where the mask of blankness cracks. He can see there's an anxious pull at the corners of Cas' eyes and a tight clench in his fists that means not everything is alright. Dean would have leaned over and put a hand on one of those white fists, if Dad wasn't sitting between them, creating a daunting wall between them: John Winchester.

The principal purses his lips at Cas. "Well, don't think that gets you out of trouble. This isn't an establishment that condones any sort of fighting. I will be in touch with him." He clears his throat loudly. "That being said, what do you boys have to say for yourselves?"

Dean and Cas' eyes meet and hold for the barest of second before Dean darts his away. He licks his lips nervously. It's not like the incident is _their_ fault. They hadn't started the confrontation. _Well_, Dean had thrown the first punch, but those assholes had been asking for it. He just doesn't know how to spin it the right way. To organize the events in a way that _doesn't_ incriminate either of them. Maybe if—

"_Dean_," Dad barks.

Dean jerks. It's not yelling, Dad saves the yelling for the house, but somehow this is worse. He clears his throat. "Um, I saw, well, there were these four guys harassing my," he coughs, "_friend_, and I went over to see if he was okay—"

"Did you have any reason to think he wasn't?"

Dean blinks at the principal, scrambling to organize his thoughts. "Well, they weren't playing hopscotch together if that's what you mean."

"No, that's not what I meant, Mr. Winchester."

Dean swallows thickly. "Of course not. Sorry." His eyes flick up to Dad (no change) then back to the floor. "They were crowding around him, I couldn't really hear what they were saying—"

"But you assumed the worst."

Dean is really getting tired of the interruptions. "I didn't _assume_," he snaps, no longer glaring at the floor, "they were obviously talking shi—crap, and I just _helped my friend_. Anyone else would've, too."

"Yes, well, _"anyone else"_ doesn't send two of their classmates to the hospital."

Dean winces, and is surprised when Dad makes this muffled chuckling noise.

"Something amusing, Mr. Winchester?"

"Not at all, sir. Just, as I understand it, these four bullies were three years older than them?"

The principal grimaces. "It's still unclear who instigated the fight, but," and his face turns nasty here, "your son _broke a boy's wrist_. This _boy,_" he snarls and gestures at Cas, "beat another into unconsciousness. Do _not_ take this lightly. I could expel both of them."

"For self-defense? With all due respect," Dad scoffs, "that's bullshit."

Dean tries not to smile. The principal looks like someone just spit in his face.

"_Excuse_ me?"

Dad shrugs. "Those boys could have hurt my son, or, uh, him—_Castiel,_ they only did what they had to, to protect themselves."

"_Castiel_ attacked _mercilessly_, it wasn't—"

"If anything," Dad speaks over him, "I could sue you for reckless endangerment."

And then, all the air goes out of the principal. It's like he visibly deflates, back-tracking and sputtering senselessly, "Now, now, I don't, um, think that's necessary. The other children's parents haven't spoken to me about p-pressing charges, and your boy _is fine_. Don't you think that's enough?"

"Y'know. I guess I do." Dad smiles sharply and taps his hands on his knees. "Well, Dean? That sound fair to you?"

Dean's about to nod, it's an ingrained response to immediately agree with whatever Dad says, but he pauses. "What about…Cas?"

"Castiel?" The principal asks. "Well he's not really your concern is he?" He smiles smugly.

Dean narrows his eyes. "It wasn't his fault." His eyes flick to Cas, but he's doing the quiet shrinking in on himself thing. Like when Dean found him crying on his first day.

"When I talk to the rest of the boys' parents and Castiel's guardian we'll figure that out," the principal says dismissively, "Now, how about you go on with your dad."

Dean glances up at Dad, unintentionally. He knows better than to ask for things, especially when he's in trouble, but Dad doesn't snap at him to get up, he just sighs and turns back to the principal. "Castiel is a friend of the family's. I'm sure you understand."

The principal scowls, "There _will_ be consequences for this incident, Mr. Winchester."

"Fine," Dad says, "Give 'em detentions, however many you think they need."

"I—I _will._" The principal's face is turning an impressive shade of maroon._ "_I don't need you to tell me how to do my job!"

Dad rolls his eyes. Dean tries not to do the same. "Think of it as a helpful little suggestion. Now, if that's all?"

The principal opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, and a strangled, very angry, "You may go," wheezes out.

Dad stands and smiles. "Thanks for your understanding."

Dean breathes out a quick sigh of relief and can't help but look at Cas. The other boy is slumped back in his chair, the same relief clear on his face, with a tiny bit of confusion. Dean grins. Cas blinks. Then a creeping little smile sneaks across his face and steals away all the unease hiding there.

"Thank you," Cas mutters, like a secret.

Dean doesn't know if he means for jumping in on the black top, or for now, but either way, "You're welcome."

"Dean," Dad urges.

Dean gives Cas one more look, with one last eye crinkling smile (the kind between fugitives just escaping capture), and hurries out to follow Dad.

* * *

On the car ride back, Dad doesn't say much. Dean doesn't know if this is a good or bad thing. There's no yelling, no scolding, no _What-the-hell-were-you-thinking,-Dean?_'s, and that's a pleasant surprise. It's an abrupt change though, from the man who shut Dean's principal up and got him _and_ Cas out of expulsion. Dean thinks that even though they're sitting right next to each other, Dad is very far away.

Sam is in the car too, in the backseat, and when Dean glances back in the driver's side mirror, the kid looks like he's about to explode from unasked questions. _Awesome_. Dean knows what he'll be doing tonight. Along with finding something to eat. Because Dad has to work, and _crap_ Dean forgot to get eggs—there goes trying to teach Sam how to make French Toast tonight.

They pull into their driveway, and Dad shuts off the engine. Dean's about to get out, but Dad claps a hand on his arm, holding him back. Sam's half-way out of the car, and he hangs back too, eyes darting between them questioningly.

Dad turns a hard stare at him. "Get out of the car, Sam."

"But Dad."

"Go inside."

"Dad—"

"Sammy," Dean interjects, "go on. I'll be there in a sec."

Sam glares at him, but climbs the rest of the way out and closes the door. Slams it with more force than necessary, and Dean watches him stomp angrily up to the porch then into the house.

"Dean."

He pulls his eyes away from Sam and focuses back inside the car. "Yeah?"

"I don't want you hanging around with that boy."

"What boy?" Like Dean doesn't already know.

When Dad answers, he spits the name out like a curse. "Castiel."

Dean's face freezes. "Why?"

"Because I damn well said so," Dad hisses. He's not even looking at Dean. His eyes are on the rearview mirror, staring at Cas's house's reflection. His jaw twitches, and his lips are pressed white. There is no room for argument in that face.

Dean doesn't understand. Just a few minutes ago Dad had stuck up for them. For Cas. And there's nothing…_dangerous_ about him. He's strange and different, but with all the gun lessons and the nightmares, Dean isn't all too normal either. So Cas gets it—better than anyone else. And it's not fair of Dad to ask this of him. "He's my friend," Dean whispers.

"I don't care. You will listen to me. I am your father, and I'm doing what's best for you."

"That's not _fair._"

As soon as he says it, Dean regrets it. Life isn't fair. That's the first and most important thing he's learned. It's a universal truth. Dad taught him that. And the look on his face…such anger and disappointment, and it shames Dean. It kills him.

"Go inside," Dad commands. "Go and take care of your brother."

Dean opens his mouth, but he doesn't have the courage to push words out of it any longer.

"Get out of my sight."

He fumbles with the door and sprints up to the porch faster than his feet can follow and almost trips.

It doesn't matter. The Impala is gone from the driveway before Dean can even get the door open.

* * *

Dean's evening is subdued. Sam is pouting. He picks at his dinner, pushing Dean's home-made microwaved macaroni around on his plate and barely eating half. It's not exactly his fault. Sam had asked what happened, when Dean rushed into the house, slamming the door behind him, and Dean had refused to answer. Sam never could take not knowing _everything_. His face had hardened, and he hadn't uttered anything but a monosyllabic response when Dean asked about _his_ day and the unimportant idiocies they usually talked about at dinner. Then he sat in front of their tv in the living room, on the couch, doodling in one of his notebooks for the rest of the night. Dean didn't try to start a conversation again. He busied himself instead with homework (they're studying _The Outsiders_ in class) until the night really set in, and he sent Sam off to bed. Sam went quietly with only a few dark glares—thank god.

Now, Dean's laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to fool himself into thinking he's asleep.

It's really hard to just fade into unconsciousness, when your head keeps bringing up annoying shit like what the hell he's supposed to do about Cas, especially when he's just beginning to think they could be friends. But Dean is excellent at aversion. He's really good at denial too. And if he just pretends that the incident with Dad in the car didn't happen, then he's fine. He's golden. Sam is asleep in the room right next to his, snoring away (the walls are thin, Dean can hear everything) and in the morning he'll see Cas at school and things will be better.

He fades out eventually. Darkness and quiet lulling him away from reality. And then, he's dreaming.

It's another weird one. Dean knows that as soon as it starts. There's just a feeling about these kinds of dreams. They're closer somehow. More real.

Dean dreams of a scrapyard. The kind of car scrap yard that you could get lost in. There are auto skeletons everywhere. Piled high and scattered low. The sun is gone from the sky, but there are shadows everywhere. He walks through the yard without purpose, wandering, back and forth. There's the echo of words and pleas, too faint to really make out, all in the same voice.

He doesn't really want to hear them. They start out rushed, angry and demanding, then slowly deteriorate into quiet pleading. Even if Dean can't hear the words, it pulls at his chest—his heart. It all hits too hard. It feels too close. As if it's his mouth screaming. And the more he concentrates on them—the more it sears through and tightens his throat, the clearer they become until he can hear words in this eerie graveyard of cars.

"…_Please_…just…me…and Sammy…"

The swift breeze turns bitter.

"…I need your help…by myself…_Cas please_."

There's a rustle in the dull, dark place—_like the stirring of wings. _Suddenly, Dean knows who's going to be behind him. He knows who he's been praying to for hours on end, and that Sammy is back in the panic room, writhing and hallucinating behind a thick, iron door. In this instant, it's all so clear, so obvious. The dream has turned from fiction to reality.

Dean turns around to snap at the angel he hasn't seen since Illinois—

and _wakes_.

He's sucking air in like a drowning man, clawing at his blankets and holding screams inside because _it was all so real_. Again. _Again_. His heart is in his ears, in his skull, beating and beating like it plans to escape the confines of his body to freedom. The room is too dark. Too small. Too heavy. His skin is itching and crawling, and Dean can't shake the stinging out.

There are stars burning in the backs of his eyes.

"Shit…_Shit._ Just another dream. Calm down." Sammy's in the other room. He's going to hear if Dean can't control himself. He can't let Sam know. He can't let anyone know. He's fine. He's okay. He's back. This is real. _This_ is reality.

The dream is already fading. Bleeding off until all Dean can remember is the dark emptiness and the dozens of scrapped cars towering around him. Nothing more. He pushes the image away, back as far as possible and tries to focus on the mattress at his back or the loose threads of his blanket or the cold breeze of the open window—that wasn't open seconds ago.

He jerks up already grabbing for the gun under the bed—

"Dean?"

Dean drops back to the bed. _What_? "Cas?"

Cas' head peeks out into the room from the window on the wall next to Dean's bed. "Hello. May I come in?"

For a moment, he is at a loss for words.

"Dean," Cas prompts and that's when Dean notices the skittish anxiety in his eyes, flicking back and forth and up and down at light speeds, "it's cold out here."

Dad's face from the car flashes. _"You will listen to me."_

Dean steels himself and pushes up from the bed to grab hold of the window frame. This could be a monumental mistake. Dad could come home early. He could find out. Dean doesn't even know why Cas is here.

But, yknow what? He doesn't care. "Come on in, Cas," he says, extending an arm to help his friend off the tiny little ledge (god knows how Cas managed to get up here, it's the fricken' second floor) outside his window.

Cas doesn't even hesitate before grabbing it and stepping inside, onto Dean's mattress.

"I need your help," he whispers, still holding onto Dean's arms.

It's those eyes. That's what Dean will say later. It's Cas' too blue eyes that make Dean do it.

"Whatever it is," he says, sealing his fate "I'm there."

Cas takes this in turn, and his hand slides down into Dean's palm in the mockery of a handshake. His grip is hard. Dean returns the force, squeezing back his agreement—their solidarity. It eases the strict tension out of Cas' body.

Cas closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then, "Bobby is missing. I think he's been kidnapped."

Dean doesn't even have to think.

"What do you need me to do?"


	8. Vita Incerta

**A/N:** As school gets busier, my updates get slower. I apologize. Word length has shot up though, at least for this one. A casual reminder that this story takes place in 1991. As always, I appreciate any and all feedback. Please R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

The moon is not quite full as it peaks through Dean Winchester's window, shedding the faintest of light on the clandestine meeting in the night, that the dark is heavy enough to hide their secrets.

"How do you know he's missing?" Dean whispers.

Cas sits with him on the bed, knees pressed hard into the mattress as they search each other's faces. "He didn't pick up when I called. He promised he would always answer his phone," Cas answers, prompting extreme skepticism from Dean.

"He might not have been home…"

"Why would that affect him answering his phone?"

"Uh, because phone's generally stay at home? They don't really work unless they're plugged into the wall cable-y thing, or whatever." Dean's never been too inclined to discover the technical specifics of phones. He has bigger things on his mind.

Cas frowns at him. "Bobby takes his phone with him everywhere."

Now it's Dean's turn to frown at Cas. "How does it work if it's not plugged in?" He's never seen a thing like that. It would make it much easier contacting Dad than ringing his work and hoping he's not on break, or just gone.

The puzzled look on Cas' face tells Dean he's never been inclined to discover the technical specifics of phone's either. Dean decides to let it go. "Okay. Well, even if he does have a phone like that, maybe he was busy. Or…the call didn't go through."

Cas gives him a sharp look, then rattles off, grim-faced, "Bobby never came to the school. I waited for four hours and called six times before walking home." Dean winces. Cas inflectionlessly continues, "I searched throughout the house for him and found nothing. His phone was left on the table."

Admittedly, it's suspicious. "Do you think he just forgot it?"

"Of course not," Cas mutters brusquely. "He always has it on his person. It's the only way to contact his…associates."

Dean swallows down the instinctive urge to ask _what_ _associates_. "Was his car there?"

"No. And he was supposed to be home. There was no reason for him to leave the house, and absolutely no cause for him to leave his phone." Cas sounds frustrated. The same mix of worried and scared that Dean has felt when Sammy sneaks off or gets lost. Dean remembers that Bobby is Cas' only parent, er, guardian. Whatever the label he's important to Cas. Like Sam is important to Dean.

"Okay, okay, I get it. So he hasn't been home for a while and he left his phone."

Cas nods tightly.

"Have you called anyone?" Dean is surprisingly rational about this. Cas looks confused. "The police?" Cas shakes his head. "Anyone who would know Bobby, or where he was?"

Cas purses his lips. "It takes 24 hours before the police will investigate a missing persons claim." Dean doesn't want to know why Cas knows that. "And there are no…relatives of Bobby's."

There's definitely a story behind that, but even Dean can sense that this isn't the time to push. "So, what do you suggest? Why did you…climb through my window?" He doesn't mean this as an accusation. It's not supposed to make Cas' face fall. It's not supposed to make his shoulders sag. But it does, nonetheless.

Cas looks away. "I didn't—you have to understand Dean," he stumbles over his words like trip wires, "I wouldn't ask for your involvement. I just," he grimaces, "I don't have anyone else." Shadows paint Cas' face blank in the darkness. "Bobby wouldn't approve of this."

Dean surprises himself. He laughs. "Well that makes two of us. My dad would kill me if he knew you were here."

This draws Cas' attention. "Why?"

"Well," Dean says, and he can feel the hot, white anger surging forward at the mere memory, "he doesn't like you. Told me not to hang around you."

Cas' eyes flicker, and this bitter twisted smile contorts his lips. "Maybe he was right," he whispers. And then Cas is standing, leaning towards the open window. "Look at me. Asking you for help. Getting you tangled into this." He shakes his head. "Forget it. I'm—I'll just look for him alone. I can't risk you."

Dean gapes at him, and that cold anger is suddenly redirected. "What? What the hell are you talking about?" He clamps a hand around Cas' arm. "You're not doing this by yourself. And I don't need protection. You need help, so I'm going to help. That's what friends do."

He doesn't know what he expects. Maybe for Cas to back down. Maybe for him to be relieved, grateful even. But that's not what he gets. Instead of release, Cas tightens back up, shoving away from Dean. The momentum pushes the bedframe against the wall with a loud thud. Dean's back hits the wall with it.

"When I say this isn't your problem, Dean, it isn't your problem," Cas hisses. He looks away. "I shouldn't have even come here. If someone kidnapped Bobby, they must have some idea of what's going on. I'm just endangering you by being here." Cas mutters all of this mostly to himself with paranoia in every shaking word and is intentionally looking everywhere but Dean. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your evening. I'll just—"

"Now hold on one goddamned minute," Dean says, and it scares him a little, that it sounds just a little too much like Dad. "I'm not useless, and I'm not going to let you do this by yourself." He recognizes that he's borderline shouting, and the walls in this house are way too thin, so Dean forces his voice down as far as it will go. "Yeah, I know I'm not a genius, and you obviously know what you're doing but…but I've got your back. Whatever that has to mean. I can throw a decent punch. Figured you would've known that, considering I saved your ass a few hours ago, but I'll remind you if I have to. Just, don't try to do this all on your own. You don't have to anymore."

Cas' eyes flick quick back to him. There seems to be a lot of things he wants to say because his mouth keeps rearranging itself without any sound coming out.

"You're my friend," Dean states, "and I protect my friends. You have a problem? Well, I'm willing to help. Now stop being an idiot about it, and tell me what you want me to do." Dean realizes his voice has steadily grown from a hurried whisper to a level below shouting and thanks God Dad isn't home yet.

"Dean, listen to me. I don't know who Bobby has involved himself with. I have to keep you safe—"

"I don't need you to!" Dean has always been the protector. The strongest. If not by necessity than by burden, but Dean has found a home in that responsibility. "I am _offering_ this to you. Just—Just _take _ it!"

Cas goes quiet. Dean's words echo uncomfortably in the silence, and Dean suddenly feels hyperaware of every movement, of every breath. Cas is doing the staring thing again—at him—into him, whatever. He's not climbing away from the window, and Dean isn't pulling him down (yet); they're stuck at this strange middle ground of waiting. Dean tries to pinpoint what the hell is making him push this so hard. How things have changed so quickly, so easily, but it doesn't feel…like change. It doesn't feel like he's gone abruptly from hating to aversion to this fierce, baseless loyalty. This friendship—the camaraderie, it feels natural. Like it's been there the whole time, waiting for Dean to get his head out of his ass, and _see_ it. He's just fallen into it so easily—so effortlessly, like there was never any other option but this.

Another thing to add to his growing list of things that don't make sense. He'll have to ask Cas, because if anyone has the answers here it's him.

But there's no asking going on now. Cas is still searching through him, but Dean can see that he's going to break. He's going to cave. Not because there is no one else to turn to, but for some inconceivable reason, the person Cas wants the most with him—at his back—is Dean.

Cas drops his gaze down, and Dean is ready for the acceptance.

It doesn't come.

Instead, there's the slow creaking of his door (always firmly closed) easing open slowly, and his heart jumps into his throat for a moment before he realizes it can't be Dad.

It's Sammy.

Dean is torn between relief and guilt. "S-Sam," he blurts, unconsciously moving away from Cas and towards his brother.

Sam's eyebrows were rising into his hairline, but as soon as Dean speaks, his eyes narrow into suspicion. "What's going on in here?"

There's definitely an accusation in his voice, and Dean flounders against it.

Meanwhile, Sam is sending glances behind Dean, to Cas (still clinging on the windowsill), and he looks much more than apprehensive.

"It's okay," Dean assures immediately, for Cas' benefit more than Sam's. Cas looks kind of like he's considering jumping from the window, and as Dean still doesn't know how the hell he got up here in the first place, the idea isn't exactly reassuring. "Cas, this is Sammy, my little brother." He gestures at Sam, and spreads a weak little smile to confirm the fact that no, Sam isn't going to cause any trouble. Dean can still remember Cas' first day of school and the panic there, and he doesn't want a repeat occurrence. "Sammy, this is Cas, my—my friend."

"I know who he is," Cas mutters, surprising Dean, "Do you…want me to leave?"

"What?" Dean must be missing something. "Why? Sammy's fine. He's not going to—"

"My _name_ is Sam," Sam cuts in. "_Not _Sammy." Then he rushes forward, pushing right past Dean to charge to Cas and climbing awkwardly on top of the bed. He stops inches away from the other boy's face.

They examine each other.

Dean has always thought Sam could be a scientist. Or a doctor. Or a teacher. Or really anything because Sam has always been smart. He's always picked things up quicker than other kids, especially the things Dean doesn't want him to know. And now, with Sam examining Cas with these sharp eyes as though Cas is a new specimen ready for dissection, the idea isn't too far off.

But Cas stares back with his own version of scrutiny.

Dean's worried he'll have to break up their silent confrontation (whatever the hell they're doing), but Cas disengages first. He blinks once, then nods slowly—like something has made itself clear—and he eases off the windowsill.

"I am Castiel," he announces, standing before Sam. They're so close in height (Sammy hasn't stopped having growth spurts and Dean is _not_ happy) that they're milimeters from eye to eye. "Hello." Cas extends a hand, and Sam, slightly surprised (but mostly smug), takes it firmly.

The handshake goes on just a little too long, and Dean is switching weight on and off his feet feeling, somehow, like a third wheel. He clears his throat. "Ok. Ok. You've met Cas."

Sam rolls his eyes and drops Cas' hand in favor of glowering at Dean.

Dean ignores him. "What are you doing up?"

Sam throws Dean a most impressive eye roll. "You guys woke me up. Yelling, and crashing around with the bed."

Abruptly, Dean goes red, and every word blips right out of his mind.

Luckily, Cas is unaffected. "I apologize. We didn't mean to be so loud."

Somehow, this is distinctly unhelpful.

Sam's eyes shoot between Dean and Cas a few times, and Dean can see him making the assumption (and he's only _eight_ what does he know about this kind of thing?), "Are you…?"

Dean's mouth is suddenly very dry.

Sam's eyes get wider.

Cas is either oblivious or uncaring. He's already moved past the question and back onto the point of all this. "Dean. There isn't any time for this. I need to return to my house."

"I know, I know, sorry," Dean says at the same time Sam demands, "Your house? Why?"

Dean turns back to his brother. "_You_ don't need to know. _You_ need to go back to bed." Dad is already going to kill Dean for _talking_ to Cas, let alone whatever mess he's gotten himself into by agreeing to help with this Bobby fiasco. Dean can't decide what'll get him in more trouble; leaving Sam by himself (which puts a bad taste in Dean's mouth just thinking about it) or taking Sam with him.

"I'm not just going to let you leave," Sam retorts. He's settling into a sulk, Dean can see where this conversation is going.

"You're eight years old, Sammy. What do you think you're gonna do?"

"You're _twelve_," Sam exclaims.

"That's four years older than you."

"Dad was taking you out on hunting trips when you were my age," Sam protests.

Yeah, well, there's a reason he's the oldest. And the hunting trips were probably more for Dad than anything else. Someone had to watch him get drunk off his ass. Add in a few too many guns and a forest at night, and Dean needs to be there to make sure Dad comes back alive.

Dean shakes his head. "It's different, Sam."

"_How_?"

"We're just," Dean struggles to put it into words, "I can take risks. You can't. That's just not how it works."

Of course, Sam doesn't like the answer. But he's never done well with someone telling him he _couldn't_ do something. Dean doesn't like denying his little brother anything (it feels too much like…Dad), but this is for his own good. Besides, Cas didn't even want to let Dean come with him. Convincing him that an eight year old kid is perfectly safe and can even take care of himself…yeah, not likely.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and he really does mean it. "You can't come with us."

For a second, Dean thinks Sam might be on the verge of tears. That or about to punch Dean in the face (he's tried before), but his brother just turns around and walks back to the door. "Whatever," he mutters.

"Sam—"

"Yeah, I'll cover for you with Dad."

Dean quiets.

Sam pauses with his hands on the door.

Strangely enough, it's Cas who breaks the silence. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam turns back, and Dean can't really see around his hair (the boy really needs a trim) except for his smile. Then he's gone, closing the door behind him.

"Dean," Cas prompts.

Dean watches the door for a moment. Wondering if he's really making the right choices. Doing the right thing. What Dad would say, if that even matters.

Cas climbs back into the window, curved in the frame like a painting. "Are you ready?"

Dean sighs, and lets the door fall out of sight. "Yeah." As ready as he'll ever be. "How are we…getting down?"

"There's a branch below the ledge. It should be strong enough for both of us," Cas answers.

Well. Two problems with that. One, ledge is an exaggeration. It's like, a few inches off the house—if that—barely enough to get a foot on. Two, Dean knows what branch Cas is talking about. He tried to climb that tree when they first moved here. It's…at least two feet away from the house. "Are you serious?"

Cas gives him a look.

Yes. Very serious then.

"Okay…uh…yeah. Let's do this."

Cas nods, and just like that, ducks out of the window.

Dean runs over, heart in his throat, but Cas hasn't fallen. He's a pale shadow in the night, clinging to the side of the house with his finger nails and balancing precariously on the edge of the "ledge." He doesn't motion for Dean to come down with him, and Dean's not really eager to try his luck at this little gambit yet. He just watches as Cas takes a deep breath, then tries not to gasp when he slingshots his body forward into the darkness.

There's a grunt, a scratching and the moan of the tree, then Cas hissing, "Come on."

Dean looks down. If he lands bad, worst case scenario he breaks his neck. Best case, one of his ankles. Dad taught him how to roll into a fall, but Dean hasn't really had a chance to practice. But, Cas is waiting for him. And Dean isn't afraid of a tiny two story fall.

Definitely not.

He rubs his palms on his pants (glad he didn't actually change out of his jeans) and wonders when they got so sweaty. It's not that far of a jump. He can do it. He shoves on the pair of discarded tennis shoes from the end of his bed, then hops on top of the mattress. There's another thud, and Dean recognizes it as Cas getting to the ground.

It's his turn now.

Dean climbs into the window frame, glances downwards, swallows back some panic (he's a Winchester, he's not scared of anything), and eases downwards. His feet strain for the edge of the ledge, and settle against it as soon as they find it.

It's few feet, he reminds himself. Just a few feet.

"Dean?" Cas whispers up. "Do you need assistance?"

"No!" Dean curses, then repeats, quieter, "No. I got it. It's fine."

"Maybe…"

"Cas."

"…yes?"

"Trust me."

There's no reply.

Dean decides to take that positively. He steels himself, planning the angle of it all and hoping that's the branch and not just a convincing shadow. It's not going to be a pleasant trip down if he's wrong.

Okay. Okay.

He's ready. He is.

One deep breath, Dean tells himself. One deep breath then—

Dean jumps.

He windmills a bit more than necessary, and might've let out a tiny little-almost-scream, but he catches onto the rough bark, and wraps the majority of his upper body around it. He makes it.

"Dean?"

There's not enough breath left in Dean's chest to answer that. He lets himself slide down the branch a ways, then drops to the next limb and from there the ground.

Cas is at his side in a second, not actually touching but doing a lot of waving around and hovering. "Did you harm yourself? Your ankles? Your hands are scratched. Are you—"

Dean stands up straight, trying not to look winded or like he's almost pissed his pants. "I'm fine." It's not quite as confident as he'd like, so he adds, "Thought you had some faith in me, Cas. Of course I'm okay."

"Of course," Cas rushes out, stepping back. "Yes."

"Okay. Good." Dean brushes off his pants. "Now. Your house?"

"Yes," Cas says again, sounding a little out of it. "This way." He darts off at little less than a sprint. Dean follows.

They make their way around the side of the house, passing the empty driveway, then to the street. Cas darts his head left then right before they cross, looking both ways (Dean rolls his eyes), and up to front door. It hangs slightly ajar, lock broken, and when Dean asks about it, Cas informs him quietly, "I didn't have the key. I had to break in."

Dean tries not to let this phase him.

They both enter quietly. The house itself lies silent. Dean doesn't like the stillness of it.

"What are we here for?"

"I need his phone and to look through his study. This way."

Dean goes where Cas directs, until he finds himself in an open area with a small wooden table—their kitchen. There's the faint smell of beans and milk. He's about to ask Cas if he actually ate anything for dinner when a phone begins ringing.

It chirps quickly, not like the long screeching of Dean's house phone. It must be _Bobby's_ phone, because Cas freezes.

"Are you going to answer it?" Dean asks. It could be helpful, he thinks. And, well, he's curious. He wants to figure out the mystery of Cas and his guardian. Every shady detail—and there's a helluva lot of those.

Cas steps to the table and picks up a smallish, blackish thing that Dean's never seen before. It's the source of the ringing. Dean watches Cas grit his teeth and flip the thing open. The ringing doesn't stop immediately, and Cas, eyebrows pressed together, fumbles with it under the trills abruptly cut off.

A slightly raspy, wry voice quickly replace them.

"_About time, old man,"_ it mutters darkly. _"I'm a very busy man, and I'm wasting enough effort as it is with you and your crazy, little research project."_

There's a quick second of panic, where Cas pushes the phone off towards Dean, mouthing something that he doesn't understand.

"_Hello?"_ The voice on the phone demands.

Shit.

Cas mimes speaking into the phone, and the light bulb in Dean's head goes on. Oh. Cas wants him to pretend to be Bobby? On the phone? Dean shakes his head, no. That is so not going to work.

The man on the other end is getting impatient. _"Bobby?"_

Cas' motioning get urgent—desperate.

"Fine," Dean hisses at him.

"_What was that?" _

Dean is instantly regretting his decision. "Hello?" he says, forcing his voice down as deep as it goes. "Uh, yeah, what is it?"

The line goes quiet.

Dean's hands are getting sweaty again. He can feel Cas staring at him, and it's really not helping right now.

"_Who is this?"_

Crap. "Bobby," he lies, trying everything to not sound like Dean Winchester.

The man is not convinced. _"Don't lie to me. I'm not an idiot, and I am not a man to cross. _Who. Is. This?_"_

Dean panics. "Who are _you?_"

The man laughs. _"My name is Crowley. You are going to tell me who you are and why you have this phone or I am going to find you and…_coax_ it out of you. And I won't be asking nicely again."_


	9. Fac Fortia Et Patere

**A/N: **I am very excited for this chapter, so less talky, more ready. Please R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

"_My name is Crowley. You are going to tell me who you are and why you have this phone or I am going to…_coax_ it out of you. And I won't ask nicely again."_

Castiel is struck suddenly by recognition. He'd heard the same name numerous times, back on the streets, and even from Bobby. He'd never actually seen Crowley, or had any direct contact with him, but Bobby had mentioned in passing the man who helped "expedite" the guardianship process. Castiel hadn't really wanted to know more, and the name was never brought up again. After moving in with Bobby, Castiel had tried to distance that part of his life as much as possible, yet his past has come back to haunt him nonetheless.

"Give me the phone," Castiel says now, but his hands are still shaking.

Dean passes it over, and though he tries to hide it, Castiel can see the mild panic there.

Castiel tries to look confident as he takes and deep breath and hopes Crowley remembers him. "Hello."

"_Yes, yes. We've gone through all the pleasantries already. Now tell me, _who_ are you?"_

"My name—" Castiel swallows with difficulty. "—is Castiel."

There's a pause. The line buzzes quietly, then, _"Well, that does change a few things._" The disdain in his voice is almost palpable. _"Where's the old man, boy?"_

If Castiel knew, he wouldn't have answered the phone. "_You_ don't know?"

"_No, I don't know,"_ Crowley snaps, _"He doesn't live in my back pocket."_ A sneer eases into his voice. _"You steal his phone, little vagabond? Hard to beat the street out of an urchin, I'm sure. I did warn Bobby about you. Guess I get to say I told you so now."_

Before Castiel can utter another word (and he did have a few choice ones picked out), Dean snatches the phone out of his hands.

"Watch your mouth, douchebag," he yells into the phone, "I don't _care_ who you are or what you do, you _don't_ talk to Cas like that."

It's fiercely protective, heart-warming and brashly idiotic all at once. But if that's not a firm representation of Dean—Castiel doesn't know the boy at all. And there's that nickname again. The one that shoots his pulse into over drive whenever it passes through Dean's lips.

And Castiel would love to get caught up in all that, but right now he _needs_ the answers Crowley must have. That's his only connection to wherever Bobby might be. The stark emptiness of the house hangs over him, stressing the importance of every second wasted away.

Crowley is not as touched by Dean's defense as Castiel was. _"You better watch your tongue—I've a bad habit of cutting them out."_

It almost surprises Castiel that the threat doesn't faze Dean at all "Does it sound like I'm scared, asshole?"

"_You will be. I'm not what you call…a nice man. I don't care if you're _just_ an insolent child—I'll string you up by the—"_

"Stop." Castiel doesn't bother snatching the phone back from Dean's hands, he just leans in over his shoulders, to reach the phone's speakers.

Crowley laughs. _"_Well,_ looks like you've a pair of cajones on you after all, kid. But I'd recommend controlling your dog before he ends up getting you into trouble."_

Castiel vaguely knows what Dean is going to say before he opens his mouth and squeezes a cautioning hand onto his shoulder. "Not now," he whispers, and Dean bristles but purses his lips in silence. Castiel restrains his own urge to strike back at the belligerent man on the phone, and instead focuses himself on the real problem at hand. "I need to know where Bobby is."

"_And I bloody well told you I don't know!"_ Crowley hisses.

"But you know where he _was_," Castiel stresses. "You know where he was going—what he's been doing. You _have_ to tell me." He _has _to find Bobby.

Crowley takes a minute to answer, and the line jumps with static. _"What business Bobby conducts is none of your concern," _he says stiffly.

Castiel wants to snatch the phone from Dean's hands and fling the infernal device into the wall, as if watching it splinter into fragile plastic pieces would affect the man on the other side of the line. "You don't understand. He's missing. I must locate him, he's—"

"_Do you think I'm stupid? Bobby's involved himself in much more than just my particular business. I warned him against it, so don't put this on my head. He's just too obsessed with finding this "truth" of his. I told him—"_ Crowley cuts off abruptly mid-rant, clearing his throat, and when he starts again, the furious flurry of words has calmed into a steady, pointed rhythm. _"I have nothing to give you. You're on your own. I recommend laying low for the time being."_

And, just like that, the phone clicks and the static vanishes. The line is dead.

"Did he just…hang up on you?" Dean lowers the phone, then places it in Castiel's limp, empty hand.

Castiel's fingers curl around it tightly. "Yes." his reply is full of pent-up rage, and in the next second he gives in, hurling the phone at the wall.

It has the audacity not to break.

"Shit," Dean whispers, and Castiel, silently, agrees.

He's trying to reign in the distinctly violent outlets for the fury inside him, but it's not working. The burning rage is seeping out of his pours, into his eyes—his fists—his shoulders. And it's all Castiel can do to still and not take it all out on the furniture, the house or _Dean_.

"Who was that guy?" Dean asks, the plethora of other unanswered questions piling up behind the four words.

Castiel doesn't want to explain. There's too much tied into the story: his past, his mission and the tiny amount of Bobby's secrets that Castiel knows. Besides, Castiel doesn't have the patience, nor the real desire to explain the convoluted mess right now.  
But Dean just keeps pressing. "Cas?" He's reaching out a hand, to snake around Castiel's wrist. "Have you thought that maybe Bobby's—do you actually know what he's been doing?"

"No!" Castiel yells, turning on Dean so they're face to face in the shadows. Dean's hand is thrown off into the darkness. "Does it look like I have any idea what's going on?" He's harsh, snapping the words like a whip.

Dean flinches. He pulls away. His outstretched hand wavers, then closes into a fist. "I'm here to help you. Don't treat me like the enemy," he warns in a low voice.

"I didn't—I don't—" Castiel wants to scream. For all the misunderstanding, the things he can't explain, for the sheer frustration of _everything_—but he doesn't. He swallows it all down and says instead through tight lips. "I didn't want you to come."

This should be it for Dean. The push to send him back to his safe life with his father and his brother away from all of the complications of _Castiel_. But, though the silence stretches long and strongly, Dean doesn't waver.

"I don't care what you want," Dean declares, and he's filling up space now, expanding his presence like Castiel has never seen before. "I don't care what you think is best—for me or for you." There's light in the room now. Glowing softly and tentatively, but surer and surer—from Dean, from Castiel himself. He can feel it reverberating inside him.

_It's like_, Castiel thinks in quiet wonder, _they're resonating together_.

"You're obviously an idiot when it comes to asking for help, so I'm just going to take the authority here and do what I _know_ is right."

The conviction isn't just resolute—it's indomitable. Castiel is blown away by the strength of it.

"We're going to work together. We're going to fix this," Dean says, and Castiel believes. "I'm not going to leave you."

He doesn't understand how Dean is not blown away from the radiance in the room and the shaking in his soul—being so close to it all. To the majesty of together. It's all the terrifying majesty of the destruction Castiel has wrought before, but tended and soothed by the trust, by the care, by the steady loyalty of Dean Winchester.

This is it. Castiel can feel it. The key to it all shimmering between them, in this light that only he can see, and if he can get close enough, dive far enough into it, he'll know it all.

"Dean—" Castiel is the one reaching out now. Hope soaring and flying, never to fall.

The front door slams open.

The recoil is like the snap of a rubber band pulled too tight, and the light burgeoning into existence flares then vanishes, as if it had never existed in the first place.

"Sorry to interrupt the moment, but I've got a proposition to make, and we're a little low on time."

Castiel watches the intruder saunter into the room with a knowing leer on her lips and a somber-looking Sam Winchester clenched to her side with a hand on his shoulder and a knife at his neck.

Castiel purses his lips. "Meg."

"_Castiel_." She smiles. "Long time no see."

It's in the next moment that Dean launches himself at her, and Castiel lunges forward to draw him back. If Castiel knows anything about Meg, it's that she's cold, ruthless and will not hesitate to carry out a threat.

The smirk on her face brings back too many memories. She's four years older than Castiel, and looks it. Her hair is rattier than the last time he saw her and a different color (platinum blonde)—but she was always good at changing appearances, shifting like a chameleon with the right makeup and dye. And always with that sharp, little shiv, flipping between her fingers.

Castiel doesn't want to see her use it. But it turns out, his intervention isn't necessary, because Dean is faltering. He twists and staggers like someone has tilted the floor on him or switched off gravity. Castiel can't see his face, but he does jump forward fast enough to clasp Dean's back to his chest before he falls.

The shut-off, sober expression on Sam's face breaks to terror.

"Well," Meg whistles, "that was unexpected."

"Dean?" Castiel momentarily forgets where he is and who's threatening who in lieu of Dean. The other boy's breathing is uneven. He's panting, and his eyes—they're like static. Faraway and gone. Like when they first met. Seeing something else—that Castiel can't.

Meg sighs loudly. "What's wrong with that one? Un poco loca en la cabeza?"

"It's loco," Sam whispers lostly as he searches his brother's face.

"Whoa, would you look at that," Meg says, "We've got another smartass on our hands, Clarence."

Castiel is restraining himself from snapping at her, when awareness seeps back into Dean's eyes. He relaxes forward, sighing in relief.

Dean looks confused now, though no less angry, and Castiel wants to know so badly what he's seen, but he's smarter than that. Meg is going to catch anything they say to each other, and she's much quicker than most of the old gang gave her credit for.

"Are you alright?" he asks instead.

Dean looks up, and there are those multitudes of questions in his eyes again. Castiel can only shake his head.

"…Dean?" the timid inquiry comes from Sam.

Dean stills, then seems to realize all in one instant that Sam is being held at the point of a knife. "Get the hell off him!" He yells, and starts again on Meg.

Since he's already holding onto him, Castiel has no problem restraining him. "Wait," he whispers in Dean's ear, and miracle upon miracle, Dean does.

Meg seems to take intense pleasure in the display. "Well I'll be damned, you went and got yourself another sweetheart, Clarence. I'm jealous."

Castiel has many things to say to Meg (they'd left a few too many things unfinished when Bobby took guardianship over Castiel), but none of them more relevant than, "What are you doing here?"

The shiv pressed against Sam's neck tenses and Meg's eyes flash. "Not happy to see me?"

He doesn't even know how to answer that.

Luckily (or maybe not), Dean takes the choice out of his hands. "Of course not," he spits, "Now get your hands off my brother before I rip your _lungs_ out."

The threat, however convincing, has no effect on Meg. She stretches her Cheshire grin wider and juts out a hip. "Possessive, aren't we?"

Dean is seething. Meg's knife is steady. Sam swallows against the steel at his throat. Castiel can only watch as things spiral out of his thin control.

"Meg. Stop," he says, firmly—with no room for argument. Castiel can't allow this to go any further.

It's not much to wager, seeing how it all ended, but it's enough. Meg straightens, and the flirtation edges out of her, replaced instead with resolve. "Call off seizure boy, and we'll talk."

Dean scowls at her. She raises an eyebrow. Castiel doesn't even have to ask him to calm down. He takes one look at Sam and restrains himself instantly.

"Thanks, really appreciate that," Meg says. "Now, just so we're clear, I'm not here to stir up trouble. I'm _actually_ doing you guys a favor, so, it wouldn't kill you to say thank you. Less antagonism… kay?"

As per usually, nothing out of her mouth makes sense. "Obviously," Castiel replies anyway. "Let him go now."

"Fine." Meg drops her hold on Sam and he staggers forward. Dean breaks Castiel's hold instantly to crowd him, checking and whispering assurances. Sam is white-lipped and visibly shaken, but faring a thousand times better than most who find themselves on the wrong end of Meg's blade.

When Dean is properly assured Sam isn't dying, he drapes a protective arm over his little brother's shoulders and turns back to Meg, glaring.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh don't act like this is my fault. _I _found him wandering around in the dark. You're lucky someone else didn't find him."

This doesn't really improve Dean's temper. He's now splitting his glare between Meg and Sam. Sam is looking very intently at the ceiling.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean hisses at him. "I told you to go back to bed."

Sam mashes his lips together.

"What kind of idiot are you?" Dean demands. "That was so _stupid_, Sammy."

"Don't treat me like a kid, Dean!"

"You're eight. You're as close to a kid as it gets. Don't pretend I'm being unreasonable."

"If you weren't sneaking off at night—"

Meg whistles again, bringing the conversation (argument) to a screaming stop. "A lot better than daytime TV, huh?" she comments to Castiel, then, to the group at large, "But I think you're going to want to _shut up_ and listen to what I have to say."

They shut up.

"Good. Thanks." She clears her throat theatrically and spins her knife around absently. "Through a series of unfortunate events, I've ended up on the wrong side of a few…nasty people. Say…Crowley times ten. Been on the run for a while, you know how it is, Castiel," she says off-handedly. "_But_ I've kept my network running—keeping up with the word on the street and all."

"Is there a _point_ to this?" Dean interrupts.

Meg squints at him. "Oh I'm sorry, do you have some life-or-death relevant information that needs sharing? No? Okay, thanks, let me finish. As I was saying, I've been running recon, and happened to be in this neck of the woods, when I caught wind of some of those nasty people in the area. I _thought_ it'd be the right thing to and come and warn you, Clarence. See? No ulterior motives."

Prior experience would say otherwise. "That's all? Not because of Bobby?"

"What? The old man? What's up with him?"

Of course not. Nothing could be that easy. "Never mind," Castiel mutters.

"If you need some help on the pronunciation," Meg says, "it goes like this. Thaaa—nnnk—yooouuu."

Castiel stares at her mutely. She stares cheekily back. He's going to have to ask her to leave. She'll get aggressive, so they'll fight (again), and Dean will get defensive (more so than he already is), but there are other people Castiel can go to. People that don't already have grudges against him.

He's going to start the fight, can already feel the metallic taste of anger on his tongue, when the sound of glass breaking shrieks from upstairs.

Everyone freezes, except for Meg.

"Oh," she clucks her tongue once, "did I mention? They're on their way here, and I'm almost positive it's not a house-warming call."

"No you did not mention that," Dean bites out.

There's more glass shattering from upstairs, then the crash and thud of booted feet on the floor. There are people in Castiel's house. In Castiel and _Bobby's_ house. He wants to storm up the stairs, damn the consequences, and defend his home, but the scramble of movement gets louder and it becomes clearer there are more than just a few intruders. And Dean is still clutching onto Sam protectively. Castiel can't get them involved.

He's going to have to abandon this place. The realization settles onto him heavily and resolutely. Time to say goodbye to another home. Castiel hopes desperately this will be the last time.

"So. My proposition," Meg continues. "I happen to have a means of transportation and a hideout not too far from here. I'd suggest you come with me."

Castiel shakes his head, but the noise from upstairs is getting closer. "On what conditions? What do you want?"

"I'm wounded. Where's your faith?"

Meg's first and foremost concern has always been herself. Castiel will not fool himself into thinking otherwise. "What. Do. You. Want?"

"I'm helping out an old friend! How's that for a reason?" Meg explodes. "If you don't want your two stray puppies getting hurt, I'd advise you come with me. They're in this now, no matter what you do."

Castiel wonders if the concern in her voice is genuine. She's always been such a great actress. But lack of options is going to force his hand. "For tonight," He says resolutely. "That's it, then, we part ways."

But Dean isn't sold. "Are you serious? We're going to take her word for it? She probably led them up to the front door!"

Something heavy is thrown to the floor upstairs, and Castiel winces. They don't have time to bicker this out. Castiel would have been gone the second he heard the first crash if he was alone, but it's always been easier to hide one inconspicuous body. Three is out of the question. Not unless they go with Meg.

Dean looks like he's digging himself in for a fight though, and Castiel doesn't know how to convince him out of it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He read that somewhere, and it seems appropriate now.

By some fortune, Castiel is not forced to confront the storm that is Dean Winchester. The stomp of a set of boots beats against the stairs, echoing, and Castiel can see, shadows edging closer. The invaders are down the steps and staring directly into the kitchen before Castiel can say a word.

"Hey! What the hell—don't you move!" One of the three that have descended barks. He's waving around a gun carelessly in their direction and his two buddies mimic him.

This is enough to push to bypass Dean's opposition—at least for the moment. "Car, yeah, Meg, sounds good."

Meg smiles wide. "If that's settled, I'd say our best course of action is to run. Agreed?"

In unison the boys reply, "Agreed," and all four sprint to the front door.

The men on the stairs scramble after them, but don't manage to catch up before they're through the doorway. Castiel hears, from the back of the group, the thump of three bullets in the drywall above the doorway and shivers.

"Where's your ride?" Dean asks, between pants. He's got Sam's arm and is tugging him forcefully faster. Castiel can only barely see their shadows, but Meg's blond hair sticks out like a beacon in the darkness, lengths ahead of them.

She skirts the driveway, and they pass through the yard on the left side of Castiel's house. "Down the street. Just keep up. We'll get there."

They sprint, leaping over garden decorations and fences. Dean falls behind, helping Sam over each obstacle, and Castiel slows for him. He can hear the men chasing them, and the panic drives his feet. He hasn't run like this is months. He hasn't had to run away from much since Bobby took him in.

It's almost…liberating.

"Here it is!" Meg announces. She's heading straight for a tiny, matchbox-looking car parked precariously half on the curb.

Meg slams into the driver's side, as Castiel throws open the door for Sam and Dean. He then throws himself into the back seat, and the engine screams to life. There's more gunshots as Meg screeches off onto the street.

"Who the hell taught you to drive?" Dean yells.

"Not really any of your business right now—stop being a pussy," Meg retorts absently as she spins the wheel. The car protests loudly as it accelerates, but they're moving farther and farther away from the shadows chasing them.

The gunshots fade, then stop entirely.

"See?" Meg announces after a few minutes of insane, extreme driving. "You're welcome." No one makes any attempt to respond to that. Meg pulls into an intersection, and the street lamps flash through the car like spotlights.

Castiel can see Sam crammed on the other side of the backseat, Dean squished between both of them. In the moment of quiet as they all struggle to catch their breaths, he quickly takes inventory of their situation.

He forgot Bobby's phone in their rush to leave, along with every other thing he owns in a house about to be ransacked by goons of an unknown nature. Goons that now know his and Meg's faces but more importantly Dean's and Sam's. Crowley has no idea where Bobby is. Castiel has no leads. There's no option to go back to the house to look through Bobby's study. He now has Meg to deal with (whatever her intentions) and the Winchesters to keep safe.

It weighs on him, crushing and overpowering. The distinct helplessness—uselessness—assaults him.

Castiel is just starting to panic when a hand brushes over his, weaving their fingers together. He looks up, and Dean is staring intently at him. Like he can see Castiel over-thinking himself into an anxiety attack.

"We're fine," Dean says assuredly, "We're okay."

Castiel smiles weakly, willing himself to believe it. From over Dean's shoulder, Sam shoots him a shaky grin, and Dean does the same. Castiel takes a deep breath. They're still alive, not even one injury. He can work with this. They can work _together_. This new idea of help and support is still foreign, but calms him nonetheless.

It takes a few seconds, but his breathing slows and his heart returns to its normal pace.

"Thank you," Castiel murmurs.

Dean laughs softly and squeezes their hands tighter. "Any time."

In the front seat, Meg fakes a gag. "Gross. Keep the PDA to a minimum, we're almost there lover boys."

Castiel settles into his seat, and the brothers do the same. Dean's smile is a little bit more smug now, and their hands remain clasped tight together for the rest of the ride.


	10. Fortes in Fide

**A/N:** Next chapter. Whoo. I can't believe it. Just shot over 30k. Things are heating up. Please R&R and Enjoy.

* * *

Dean is starting to get the feeling that there is much more to Cas than the nervous boy who lived across the street. The first few tip-offs he'd been able to let slide. But these last few? Not so much.

There was Bobby—his absence mainly, but also the enormity that Dean doesn't know about him. Then Cas' skills with, one, breaking into houses (both his and Dean's), two, dealing with psychopaths over the phone, three, running from thugs with guns, and, four, consequently, defending himself. Most obviously after that, is _Meg_.

The girl (on that shaky precipice between childdhood and adulthood) had, and it _really_ pains Dean to admit it, scared the shit out of him. Not her devil-may-care-attitude—Dean takes that and more every day. What unsettled him to the core was what he'd seen when she walked in—when he really _looked_ at her.

The vision (or hallucination, Dean's still not sure) was reminiscent of the white-washed afterimage he'd seen the first time Cas showed up but…darker. And shakier. Dean saw an older woman, face streaked with blood, and grit stuck in her blonde, pink-highlighted hair and a knife in her hands. There was a mocking glow in her eyes and death wish in her smile.

Yeah. No one could really blame Dean for wanting to take a few steps back, or craving the comfort of one of Dad's guns. That urge had been drilled into him for years. There was, of course, the fact that she'd also held a knife to Sam's throat, and his little brother was frozen solid, which was reason enough for Dean to hate her guts on instinct.

But Cas knew her, and trusted her, and in the end they'd ended up running off in the night together, gun-waving crazies sprinting after them. Suffice to say, Dean is conflicted about a lot of things. And the running loop in his head, dashing between, _who the hell is after them, where Meg's insane driving is taking them, what exactly is Cas hiding, and_ shit_, Sam saw him freak out—what's he going to think_, is being unhelpfully derailed every few seconds by the thought of _Dad._ It's almost amazing how many fears and dreads can be wrapped up in one word.

They'd left the house (even if Dean didn't take Sam with him, Sam's here now, so Dean doesn't have a leg to stand on there) in the dead of the night. It was almost two. Dean and Cas had possibly provoked a very dangerous man over the phone, seconds before some _other_ group of very dangerous people broke into Cas' house and started shooting at them. _Now_, Dean is with Sam and Cas in the car of a strange girl they'd just met, off to the devil knew where, with no means of alerting or explaining any of it to Dad.

Dean almost wants to argue that if Dad would spend less time at dark, smoke-clouded bars and came home at a decent hour, none of this would have happened. Then again, he wouldn't be with Cas right now, and somehow that seems like the worse of the two evils. Besides, Dad's weakness for liquor and late nights is…necessary. Dean would rather him take the anger and bury it in the bottom of a glass than bring it home to Sammy. He tries not to feel guilty for that.

"Okidoke, kiddos. Ride's over," Meg announces from the front seat after some time. She sounds drawn—fraying at the seams.

They'd driven into town a few minutes ago, and now they're stopped in the back of a building in desperate need of repair. Dean doesn't go into town much, and he's sure he's never seen this part of it before. There's a shadowy overhang to it, building the night's darkness and the flickering lampposts into a sinister oppression. They're parked in an alley with dumpsters and dripping drainage pipes. Dirt piles upon dirt and, the blackness of grime creeps over the walls of each building. It climbs from the ground up, like dark, jagged fingers across the uneven bricks. The steady hum of the car's engine breaks the stillness of the dark, dark alley, but a chill seems to carry through the metal, Sam _and_ Cas' bodies, and into Dean's bones. He tries not to shiver.

Meg taps impatiently on the dashboard, unmoved by their surroundings. "Hurry up. Get out. I still gotta stash the car."

"But—" Sam protests, eyes seized by the scene outside his window. Dean can tell he has the same uneasy feeling about the place by the wrinkle in his forehead.

Meg doesn't seem to care. "Do I have to hold your hand? Get outta the damn car."

Sam pops open the door, gets out and Dean follows, valiantly glaring at Meg and tugging along Cas, who's apparently too lost in thought to disentangle their fingers. Dean's not really minding that, truth be told. Sam's starting to grow out of holding his hand, and it's…nice to be _more_ than just needed—Cas actually _wants_ him. It keeps the anxiety at bay.

A second after the door closes, Meg pulls off in a shrieking cloud of exhaust that Dean knows (from some of Dad's few impromptu mechanic lessons) is partly the car's fault, but, mostly, it's Meg's driving.

The three of them stand awkwardly in the darkest area of the alley, waiting—trying to be inconspicuous. There's a cat digging through the trash a few yards over, chewing on the remains off a bone. The buildings here don't reek of newly constructed materials, in actuality they look like they're falling apart. He assumes, and it's not really that far of a stretch) that they're not in the best part of town.

The air is heavy. Not even a soft breeze stirs the air. The atmosphere seems almost supercharged, as if it's waiting, like Dean, for something terrible to happen. He quietly starts counting the amount of rats skittering through the garbage to distract himself. The number becomes too large, and Dean decides to stop. The hair on the back of his neck keeps rising, like someone is about to jump out from behind him. Sam and Cas are uniformly quiet, and Dean wonders what's going through their minds, and if the darkness is driving them as crazy as it is Dean.

Meg is taking an awful long time to get back.

Sam shifts beside Dean and clears his throat. Dean can predict exactly what he's going to say. When when his little brother opens his mouth and mutters, "I'm sorry, Dean," it doesn't really come as a surprise.

Dean takes a deep breath, but doesn't say anything, yet. He's trying to organize the millions of things he really needs to say to Sammy and not let the few angry objectors free. His grip on Cas' hands tightens, but Cas only leans closer brushing their shoulders together, and that calms Dean more than words.

"Sam," he starts, still sorting out what's to come. He settles for, "That was too dangerous."

"I know," Sam says, but he really, really doesn't.

"They had _guns_. We're lucky no one got hurt. You shouldn't have been there. You were _supposed_ to be in bed." This time it's Cas' hand that presses harder—a caution rather than a reassurance.

Sam shakes his head. "I was supposed to just let you go off? Dad _told_ us to stick _together_."

This isn't really what an apology sounds like, Dean thinks. "Dad told _me_ to keep you safe. This is _my _responsibility. _My_ job. And this—I'm not—Do you think he'd want you out here, running away from thugs in the middle of the night?"

"I can protect myself!"

The words come out like a slap in the face. Like Sam is saying Dean is _unnecessary_. That all he's done is pointless because Sam can _protect himself._ The anger is easier to grasp than the hurt.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean yells. His voice is too loud. Both Sam and Cas flinch. He forces his volume down. "Meg had you at the point of knife. How is that defending yourself?"

Sam flounders. "She—It—I wasn't expecting—"

"You're never going to expect an attack when it _matters_. You have to be _prepared_ all the time. That's what Dad told us."

"And he taught _me _how to defend myself."

Dean can't believe this. "You _never_ listen to Dad. You hate it when he takes us out—for shooting or for anything else. You argue with every damn word out of his mouth—"

"Dean," Cas interrupts.

In that second, Dean realizes he's slipped right out of their hand hold, and every accusing word brought him step by imposing step towards his brother. He freezes, then ducks his head.

It's not—Dean doesn't _want_ to be upset. He doesn't want to hurt Sam, but just thinking about Meg's gleaming knife on his little brother's throat…stains the world red.

"I'm here now," Sam says, barely above a whisper. "I'm part of this."

He doesn't sound nearly repentant enough. Still a hint of building confidence, like it only matters that in the end, he got his way.

Before Dean can do anything to wipe the faint smirk off Sam's mouth, Cas says, "Meg's coming," Dean straightens up immediately, calming his face to solid nothingness and turning away from Sam back to Cas.

Sam calls out his name, "Dean—"

He shakes his head. "No. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want your apologies until you really mean them."

A beat of quiet, then, "Fine."

Dean doesn't bother replying.

Meg appears out of the shadows a second later.

"How chivalrous. The gentlemen waited for me," she laughs. She walks closer, swinging her hips with every step, and flipping her shiv between her fingers.

"Beginning to think you weren't coming back," Dean retorts, malice in his words.

Meg rolls her eyes, running her hands through her sharp, pixie-cut blonde hair. "_That_ would be monumentally stupid." She struts past them, down a ways then across the street until she stands in front of a group of drooping boxes. She crouches down next to the slouching structure, clucking her tongue. "Strength in numbers and all that." She pauses then, contemplating, before adding, "'Course you guys are idiot, little kids—excepting Cas—so that's really debatable."

"Idiot?" Dean growls.

"Little kids?" Sam exclaims.

Meg blinks at both of them, then, drawing out each syllable, repeats, "_Yes._ Idiot. Little. Kids."

"Stop harassing them," Cas sighs. He looks so much more tired now. Like everything that's accumulated up until now has snowballed into an overwhelming burden.

And Dean's not exactly helping as he promised, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't attack Meg further.

"Whatever." Meg brushes off his warning like it's dust, but focuses on the ratty coupling of boxes and blankets, putting her back to Dean. She peels back the closes blanket, edges into the opening of the biggest box and calls behind her, "Are you coming?"

All three of the boys crowd closer, watching in morbid fascination as she crawls half-way in (as far as she fit), grabs ahold of the moldy back panel of the box and pulls_._

The soggy cardboard rips free to reveal a neat hole in the brick building.

_What the hell?_

Meg props the cardboard up against the side of box like a door then keeps shimmying in. The hold is a little too small for her, but with a few small grunts, she angles herself in entirely.

"Are you _coming_?" she calls from the inside. Her voice echoes oddly, and there's a small cloud of suspicious looking dust floating up from the hole.

"This really a good idea?" Dean mutters, mostly to himself.

Cas shrugs as if to say, _there's not really a better option_. Sam purses his lips and stomps forward with all the spite that can be forced into his body. He crouches down and disappears inside the hole with barely any trouble at all.

Well, doesn't really look like Dean has a choice then. Cas peers at him out of the corner of his eyes, and offers one of those almost smiles that's just a little too strained at the corners. Dean needs to man up. He's not here to cause complications.

Dean steps up to the little lean-to of boxes. It smells, and the cardboard is damp, speckled with mildew. Dean resolved himself not to care. When he stoops down to the ground, the knees of his pants soak with the water, and when he pulls himself into the darkness beyond the hole it kind of feels like diving into a swimming pool with his eyes shut.

The outcome is slightly less wet.

The inside of the building is sticky and humid. Dean can feel the perspiration forming on his forehead. Cas follows behind him, hands scrabbling out and accidently latching onto the back of Dean's jeans.

Meg chooses that moment to get light system the room has functioning.

Now Sam and Meg have a perfectly illuminated view of Dean getting his ass grabbed by Cas. Accidently. Except that Cas doesn't really let go until he's through the hole and that's just a few seconds too long.

Meg is cackling as Cas brushes the dirt off the front of his pants. Dean is pointedly not saying anything (because he's not going to make Cas feel bad, it was an honest-to-god accident that and the amount of heat rushing to his face might be burning off a few brain cells). Sam seems to be choking on air.

"What?" Cas asks blankly. "Is there something on me?"

"Not shame, that's for sure," Meg says, trying to catch her breath.

Dean glowers at her as hard as he possibly can.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just…refrain from groping your boyfriend in public, okay?"

Cas narrows his eyes at her, still not getting it. "What are you…?"

"It's whatever," Dean barks, "Ignore them." He stomps off, away from the entrance hole.

The room (the door to rest of the building is dented in, and there's a broken pillar collapsed in front of it), has a tall ceiling, and the metal pipes that look like they belong in the back of kitchen. Except, there's no ovens, or any real furniture at all. Just a few mounds that _look_ like pillows (Dean can't be sure) and a load of discarded blankets.

Dean takes up residence, leaning against the gray, bare wall closest to the broken door. "Are we going to get down to business or what?"

Meg wipes a tear out of her eyes, and sighs. "Assertive aren't you? Bet Clarence isn't used to that."

Can she just _stop_ for a second with the innuendos? They're really not helping.

"This isn't the time for joking, Meg," Cas intones, and Dean wants to smile, because the grin on Meg's face immediately drops off.

"Fine. All work and no play. You'd think I'd be used to it by now." She moves away from the light switches (big metal handles) and to the other corner of the wall.

As Dean watches, she starts tapping at the pipes attached there, explaining absently, "This place has been here for a while. Hasn't really gotten much use, but, hey, that works. Less people know about it. Started using it about a week ago, so _no_ Cas, I haven't been hanging around the neighborhood. I just got back. And I hadn't even planned on visiting. I do recall you saying something like _"never come here again"_ last time I showed up at your house, but circumstances kinda took that out of my hands."

Dean is going to sit Cas down soon. He's going to ask him why he knows a girl who drives like Evel Knievel and swings around a shiv when she's bored. It's going to be a very long conversation, Dean can see that now.

"_Here it is_," she sings as she snakes a hand into the crevice between one of the pipes and the wall and pulls out a stash of what looks like paper in a Ziploc bag. "Okay. Time for debrief." When Cas, Dean and Sam move closer until they're all clustered in the center of the room, she frowns. "You sure you want dweedle-dee and dweedle-dumber around for this?"

Cas gives her a look that Dean would like to classify under _shut up and get on with it or die_.

"Fine, fine. Take a seat."

The four of them do, Sam and Dean uncomfortably while Cas and Meg descend as if they're so used to sitting on puddle speckled floors in abandoned buildings that it's really not out of the ordinary anymore.

"So," Meg begins, "What do you want to know?"

_Try, everything?_, Dean thinks.

"What do you know about Bobby?" is Cas' first question. Dean really hopes it's far from the last.

"Well, I know he's got a really creepy beard and wears too many baseball caps, you'll have to be a bit more specific."

"Where is he?" Dean scowls. He's getting _beyond _tired of her slick mouth.

"Fine, fine. Excuse me for trying to have a sense of humor," She raises her hands in a gesture of peace. "To _fully_ answer that question, let me tell you exactly what I've gotten up to in the past few months—condensed of course."

Cas purses his lips but nods for her to continue.

"It's taken awhile, but Crowley's finally had enough of me. I know, surprise, surprise. I got on his bad side, a little after you left and decided to split town. Came back after his divine wrath passed on to some other sucker. I got back into a few of my other circles, and there's this name keeps getting passed on. I'd never heard it before. No one else knew much about it, except that there were a lot of dead bodies accumulating and none of the usual suspects were claiming them.

"I started running interference between Crowley and some of the other heads, trying to get closer, but my only run-in with our mysterious newcomer ended up with me in handcuffs, hanging from the ceiling, and a _very_ unsettling man with a knife. Needless to say, I got out of it," she tosses in a devilish smirk there, "but they've been on my ass since then. I dug up as much as I could—none of it good, trust me. A gang wiped out, throats slit and necks broken. That's the usual MO. A few professors strung up with evidence of torture. A longer laundrylist of theft and break-in—to some really odd places too. Museums and stuff.

"The name was Abaddon."

Cas is taking this all in stride, not much is breaking that face of stony composure, but Dean is barely keeping it together. Slit throats? Broken necks? Gangs? He's trying to piece together what crazy comic book he's strolled into, but jamming Cas (panicking, sincere, solid _Cas_) into place with the rest isn't working.

"As for how that connects with Bobby, I'm still figuring that out. I know he's been in contact with Crowley ever since he pulled you off into the land of white picket fences, but whatever business he's been pulling behind the scenes after that, I didn't really care enough to delve into. Or, I didn't, until I started getting word people surrounding Abaddon were looking for him.

"Around that time, the guy I was staying with—oh don't give me that look, Cas, I can do whatever the hell I want, I'm as grown as it gets—sold me out. I decided to head here. So, if you're asking where Bobby is? I don't really know, but I'd bet money that Abaddon does."

"What you're saying is," Dean says slowly, "some gang called _Abaddon_ abducted Bobby. Because of Crowley? And you're some kind of networking criminal?"

Meg scoffs. "Criminal? Really? I'm sure you can think of something more creative than that. I'm not saying he got abducted, I'm _speculating_ he got abducted. By Abaddon, whoever or whatever that is. And as far as Crowley goes, I wouldn't put it past him to throw a friend under the bus, but I'm thinking it had more to do with whatever Bobby was searching for than his connections."

"And what was he searching for?" Cas asks sharply.

"Beats me," Meg replies, "But I don't think anyone wanted him to find it."

Cas makes a sound like a frustrated hiss. "How does this help us find him?"

"I don't think you're seeing my point here, so let me outline it for you. Abaddon is not to be fucked with—excuse my language little children. They're looking for or already _have_ your old man. My advice? Stop looking. Cut your ties. They've seen your faces, so I'd be getting a move on, real soon. Unless you want to get caught by the crazies who cut people's throats for fun."

"_No_," Dean and Cas say in unison. Cas clears his throat, but there's thankful relief in his eyes. "I'm not going to abandon him." And Dean is not going to abandon Cas.

Meg shakes her head. "This isn't a game. Cas, you should know better, even if your tag-alongs don't get it. People are going to die. You could die. Probably painfully with lots of blood. I mean, I don't _care_. Get yourself killed if you want to, fine as long as you don't drag me down with you. But _this_? This is just…_stupid_. What do you care about one old man? Adults never helped you before. You don't need him. Throwing your life away for him is pointless!"

Cas opens his mouth to hopefully tell Meg where she can shove it, and Dean is _so _behind him, ready to back him up, when his lap is suddenly full of a very fluffy, very asleep, Sam Winchester.

The tension freezes in the air, and the only sound is Sam snoring. The kid had just…dozed off. Dean sighs.

Meg's demeanor shifts like a switch has been flipped. She goes from desperate and intense to pulled back and condescending in less than a second. "Looks like it's bed time for the kiddies," she whispers.

"Meg—"

"No," she says, standing in one fluid motion, taking the Ziploc bag with her. "No."

Dean wants to stand up with her, grab her, shake her maybe, but he can't just throw Sam onto the floor. "You can't just—"

"Oh but I can," she snarls, eyes flashing dangerously. "I have the information." She holds up the clear, plastic bag. "I have the connections. I have _all_ the power in this—don't make a mistake. You will stay here. I am going to turn off the lights and you are going to sleep on this insane, stupid idea until morning. By then, your sanity will have returned with _some_ of my patience, and we will talk." Meg stomps angrily to the light switches across the room. "Until then, no one speaks to me. Not. One. _Word_."

And with that, she flips both switches and plunges the room into darkness.


	11. Vero Nihil Verius

There is next to no chance of Castiel falling asleep. As soon as Meg turns the lights off, he wants to leap up and throw them back on. Damn _whatever she thinks is best—or what she thinks he can't do. She's _wrong_._

"Meg—"

There's a sharp clink of metal against metal, and Castiel can imagine Meg dragging her shiv against the pipes to make the shrill sound. "You're here out of the kindness of my heart," She menaces. "Don't test me. I don't _want_ to throw you out, but I will if I have to."

Castiel could test her. _Push _for what he wants, because the threat of being thrown out is barely a threat at all. By himself, he's lasted through the night and longer. Much longer. But he doubts Sam or Dean have had that particular experience before, and the he's not really inclined to give it to them now. Besides, the men who attacked them are still out there, searching for them.

It's so frustrating. He _can't_ put them in that much danger (they're already in enough as it is) even he wants to—even if he needs to. Castiel has never been able to argue very successfully against his conscience, and right now it's telling him to settle in for the night, and wait this out. Regardless of what could be happening to Bobby. Of what _is _happening to Bobby. There's no doubt in Castiel's mind that he is gone, being held captive or worse.

He has to force the thoughts away, they're not helping. They're putting jitters in his limbs and static in his head, and it's so hard to concentrate that he almost misses it when Dean hisses, "Is she serious?"

"I'm right here. I can hear you, numbskull," Meg says from across the room. "And I assure you I am _deadly_ serious."

Castiel wishes she wasn't, and wishes there was any other option now but waiting at the mercy of a hormonal, grudge-holding teenager, but at this point, he doesn't see another. "I'll grab some blankets," he mutters, resigned. It's disorienting trying to move in complete darkness, but he manages.

As he's getting up, a hand scrambles against his side. It's Dean's, Cas is sure, so he reaches out and tentatively places a palm where he expects Dean's head to be. "I'll be right back," Castiel whispers.

The hand stills then drops away. "Yeah," Dean replies immediately, then after clearing his throat, "Yeah, it's cool."

Castiel wishes he could see Dean's face in the dark, as if that would reveal the mystery in his words, but he can't. "What are you thinking, Dean?" he asks instead, almost involuntary in the way it slips out of his mouth without any prior thought. He stoops down, aiming to look at Dean although it's pitch black.

Dean pauses. Castiel thinks he can feel the moment the question sinks in, and Dean becomes paralyzed by either the implication or answer of it.

Meg coughs loudly—blatantly intentional, "Some people are trying to sleep here. Save the romancing till _after_ I'm snoring. Thanks."

Castiel sighs and rises back up to his feet, like most things Meg says, the insinuation shoots right over Castiel's head.

It does not, however, for Dean. "We're not—I'm—he's not _romancing_ me."

"Oh, _honey_. This is as close as it gets for him."

Dean barks a laugh. "We're _twelve_, not really the age for that is it?"

Meg replies to him in kind, chuckling, "I don't know. I started pretty early."

"Enough," Castiel commands in the silence. These aren't the things he wants to think about in the middle of the night, bathed in darkness. He can't allow these thoughts to catch him now, or they will capture him and he will drown amongst them.

No one argues.

The darkness echoes with Castiel's footsteps, as he fumbles around, gathering the discarded, threadbare blankets off the ground, and Sam's rattling snores.

"Here," Castiel says has he drops the thin, scratchy linens to the floor.

There's shuffling, then Dean asks, "A little help, please?" quietly, and Castiel crouches down immediately.

Sam is in the deepest sleep Castiel has ever come across. The boy doesn't even stir as Dean and Castiel move him around, trying to maneuver everyone into the blankets and some semblance of a makeshift bed. He just keeps on snoring, and Castiel notices his arm wrapped tight around Dean's side. Through all the pushing and nudging, it doesn't release.

If Dean notices, he doesn't mind, and Castiel isn't going to bring it up. It puts a hollow throb in his chest. Longing maybe, or remembrance—but there was never a time when anyone clung close to Castiel, not like Sam does to Dean. It makes him cold. And in the dark, it almost feels like he's completely alone. Trapped in the quiet.

They settle eventually. All three of them bundled up sufficiently in the confines of the blankets, closely wrapped together like peas in a too-small pod. Dean is in the middle, and when Castiel slides in next to him, he tries not to squeeze in too close, or crowd too tightly. They're just near enough that Castiel can feel the warmth of Dean's side and Dean's hair brushing up against his cheek.

It's quiet. Castiel wonders if Dean actually intends to fall asleep, or if he's even capable, because even as Castiel lies still, back to the cold ground, the dregs of unconsciousness refuse to envelope him. He's alert and on edge, waiting for the next disaster, wondering how long this adrenaline will last before he crashes.

Meg is silent. Castiel is grateful for that.

He doesn't know how much time passes while he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, but after what seems a great while, Dean shrugs beside him.

"I'm thinking a lot of things," Dean whispers.

It takes a second, but Castiel realizes Dean is referring to his earlier question. He doesn't press. The drifting feeling of the night has taken hold of them, and he knows Dean has more to add. He wouldn't have started talking if he didn't, and Castiel feels no need to rush him.

"This is just…insane, you know?" Dean says, and there is an edge of incredulity in his voice. "Things like this don't happen in real life. Kids getting chased by gunmen? Hiding out in an abandoned building? It doesn't make any sense." He sighs, then contiues. "And to _me_? I don't get it. I'm just some boy—a little crazy maybe, but—"

"No." Castiel hadn't meant to interrupt. He didn't want to cut Dean off the in the middle of whatever great speech he'd devised, but Dean is just…_wrong_. "You're not crazy. The circumstances are strange, and admittedly extraordinary, but…" Castiel clears his throat, and when he finishes his statement it is with absolute conviction—the sort he hasn't really _felt_ in so long, but Dean seems to bring out of him. "I believe this is all for a reason," he asserts. "There is a purpose. _I know it_."

"_How_?" Dean asks, and it comes out less scathing and more desperate. "I'm just some strange kid who has nightmares, and, sometimes, hallucinations. That doesn't sound like divine purpose to me. It sounds like insanity. They don't tell me anything. None of them make sense. It's just images and people, and snatches of conversations that I can't understand—they're not _helping_ anything."

Castiel takes in the information, comparing it to his own experience, but the similarities are almost null. Castiel doesn't see things—nothing but a bright light and the destruction it leaves behind. He doesn't hear things either—it's all more subtle for him. An urging, a hounding. A feeling of purpose and motivation that refuses to let him rest. So maybe he doesn't understand Dean's condition. But he _knows_ they're related, and that, somehow, it ties together.

There is sense in this puzzle. There's just too few pieces to actually make out the greater image.

"I won't pretend to know more than you, Dean. I do not have all the answers." At one point, he had hoped Dean would. The idea of Dean Winchester had been much more imposing than the real deal, yet this boy consoled his fears and worries infinitely more than the broad concept. "What I have is faith. And trust. In you and in myself, and that is enough."

Dean sighs wearily. "I'm not that kind of person, Cas. I'm not like you. I'm not going to trust the mysterious eye in the sky, or whatever 'bigger plan' you think we're part of. We're _just_ two kids. Two messed up little kids."

"That's not true," Castiel says, and he winces, because the words are feeble and weak. "You're wrong."

"I want to be," Dean rushes out, "I want you to be right. I wish this were for some greater purpose. I wish we had some guarantee it would work out in the end, but, _Cas_, the world just doesn't work like that." He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is flat and detached. "The good guys lose, and the bad guys get away. You can try hard and still fail. No one gets their happily ever after."

It's so empty. Castiel is struck speechless by the hollowness. As if the person Dean is, the smiling, reassuring, crass boy, has vacated his body, leaving behind a feeble ghost in his place.

"You can't truly believe that," Castiel whispers.

"Hasn't really been much to prove me wrong. This is how it is. It sucks, but that's life." Dean delivers the lines like a well-practiced play, like he's heard them a thousand times and repeating them is just second nature.

"How can I change your mind?" Castiel demands. This desolation that Dean has buried himself in…it must be surmountable. Castiel will overcome it. He's beat his own demons, he's dragged himself on and on, continuously. There have been low points, moments to scrape the bottom of hopelessness, but he has surpassed them. Castiel _knows_ Dean can do the same.

"You can't."

Castiel has to.

The compulsion always thrumming in the back of his head doesn't command it. It's not another involuntary action Castiel can't discern. It's because he _wants _to. He _wants_ to see Dean smile without shadows hiding in his eyes. He wants to fix this, even if Dean can't see it's broken.

Castiel reaches out, he plans on grabbing Dean by the wrist, maybe the front of his shirt, anything to yank him out of this self-delusionary despair, but it's like his hand has a mind of its own. It shoots forward and latches onto Dean's shoulder instead, tight like a vise.

The silent darkness lasts a single second more, before exploding into searing, white light, spiraling the everything into nothingness.

* * *

When the world statics back into existence, the first thing Castiel notices is that they're not in the warehouse anymore. It's startlingly obvious all at once, the cold, dank darkness replaced with the brisk breeze of fall and the sunlight shining contentedly through browning leaves on the trees in the park surrounding them. The second thing Castiel notices, is that he is not alone. Dean stands beside him in the too-bright green grass, eyes wide and mouth gaping. He's an arm's length away, and Castiel wonders faintly, in the mix of all this astonishment, why or how his hold on Dean's shoulder fell away.

They're in the middle of a park, kids running with thin jackets and smiles plastered on their flushed red cheeks. Before Castiel can ask what's happened, one dashes toward them, chasing, presumably after the girl running behind them. Castiel is prepared to throw himself out of the way but…the child runs right through him, like Castiel is made of nothing more than air. It feels like the hollow burn of sticking your finger in then out of candle flame

"What is this?" Castiel demands, anxiety creeping into his voice. This place, it's not…_real._ Castiel doesn't believe they've just _teleported_ into this sunny park. Even if the leaves are too detailed to be imagined and the children too realistic, it _not_ reality. It _can't_ be. "Where _are_ we?"

Panic twists Dean's face. "This isn't possible," he whispers.

"What?"

Dean spins in a small circle, marveling openly. "The visions—the things I see—they're just, they're just _dreams._"

Castiel's eyes widen as he understands. Somehow he's found himself in Dean's head. He reassess the scene, committing it to memory and pouring over the details, but if anything, it feels more like a memory than a dream. "This is what you see?" He asks tentatively.

"Not…all the time. It's not always like this. It's usually darker, full of shadows and distorted. And no one," he looks back at Cas, "No one has ever been with me."

"I'm here right now," Castiel says, immediately, because he can feel Dean trying to convince himself out of. "This isn't a dream. It isn't a hallucination." He grabs Dean's hand to illustrate the point. They touch, no passing through and no ice.

Dean shakes his head, but there's less resistance. He's just going through the motions of it.

"Dean," Castiel snaps, "What is it going to take for you to believe? It doesn't get more clear than this. What is so hard to accept?"

"All of this!" Dean throws his hands up, yanking away from Castiel. "What do you want me to think? We're on some mission from _God?_ Seriously? If I said any of this stuff out loud, to _anyone_, I'd be in an asylum in minutes."

"Does it matter if anyone else believes? It's the _truth_, Dean. As much as you ignore it, it's not going away."

Dean looks like he's about to snap something quick and cruel, but just as his mouth opens it falls slack, and his eyes travel up over Castiel's head.

Castiel turns around, and if he thought the change from dark, abandoned building to bright, park was shocking, this is a million times worse.

There's a man walking past, through the masses of running children, and even if it doesn't make sense, can't be possible, Castiel knows exactly who he is.

"…Dean?"

They're not clones, not a clear copy, but Castiel can see it, in his walk, in the way he shoves his hands in his pockets, the numerous freckles spotting his cheeks and his vibrant green (like summer grass) eyes. This is _Dean_. Albeit, a considerably older and more worn Dean, but undoubtedly the same person.

This new Dean passes them and settles onto a bench a few yards away, eyes lost in the sky. He sits heavily, like the weight on his shoulders is dragging him to the ground, and he hunches too, like it's all too much. Little puffs of air swirl out of his mouth then up and away, into the blue.

As they watch silently, another man appears, _instantly_. It's like one second the bench beside Dean is empty, and in the next, _he_ is there, sitting with his hands clasped in front of him like he'd been there from the start. Castiel jumps, and takes one step back, completely unnerved.

The newcomer is cloaked in an overly large, tan trench coat. He's stiff-backed and blank-faced, with the burning intensity of a storm.

"That's you," His Dean whispers, and it clicks.

That's Castiel's scruffy black hair, his pale skin, his glass, blue eyes. That's him.

But, it's not. The uncanny resemblance is there, but in the same way that Dean is not identical to the older man, Castiel is not the same as this strange duplication. He feels smaller, and weaker, and more _human _in comparison. Castiel doesn't know where the word comes from (what could this man be if _not_ human?), but the notion seems so accurate, he can't argue against it.

The two men start talking, and even though Castiel and Dean can't hear their words over the distance and the clamor of the playground, they observe, unblinkingly, and don't speak a word.

The conversation starts out calm, just the quick movement of mouths, neither of them really looking at each other, but the older Castiel says something (and Castiel can't tell what it is, it's delivered with the same empty impassiveness as the rest of his words), and Dean jerks around in agitation, snapping something quick and fierce.

Castiel wishes he could make out words, just a few phrases, anything to understand, to grasp what is going on. He thinks in that moment, that he understands Dean's helplessness.

"I've seen you before," Dean mutters suddenly.

Castiel tears his eyes away from the exchange on the benches.

"This you." Dean inclines his head toward the man with the trench coat. "When I saw you get out of Bobby's car for the first time. It all got…" he waves his hand vaguely and squints his eyes, "shimmery. Then there was this you, getting out of my dad's car. It only lasted a second, but…that's when I knew you weren't normal." He laughs quietly. "Not that I can talk. But, it was the first time I'd had a—a vision," he stumbles over the word like it doesn't makes sense coming out of his mouth, "when I wasn't asleep. It really freaked me out. That's why I tried to avoid you. I'm—I _was_ still trying to be normal. Trying to pretend that if I ignored it—ignored _you_, it would go away." His voice cracks, but Dean just clears his throat and keeps going. "I shouldn't have. I'm…sorry."

Castiel feels his eyes soften. "It wasn't your fault," he says. Dean wanted to protect himself—Castiel understands that. Before he'd met Bobby, he had been the same. Worse even.

"No, I should have—"

"Dean," Castiel reprimands, and he waits until Dean stops avoiding to his gaze to finish, "it _wasn't_ your fault." He holds the eye-contact, trapping Dean in it, because this boy needs to _understand_ that not everything is his responsibility—his burden. Castiel doesn't know how the older version of Dean became so worn down and grim, but he wants to prevent it at all costs.

"Okay," Dean says, "Okay."

Castiel isn't sure he really believes him, or if Dean truly believes it himself, but it's a start. "Good. Now, do you know where we are?"

There's a sag in Dean's shoulders belying his relief at a change in topic, then a quick shake of his head. "Not a clue. It doesn't look familiar, but honestly I couldn't tell you where most of the stuff I see happens. Not usually a lot of street signs around."

Castiel puzzles over this. He still thinks that these visions have a purpose; that they must mean something, pieces in this incomprehensible puzzle, but all he has are more questions. Is this real? Is it…the future? Visions of what's to come? Or what might be? A warning? But Castiel can't see a world in which he looks at Dean with anything less than adoration in his eyes—and while this Castiel is intent, he has none of the warmth.

"Do you get them too?" Dean asks suddenly, focused and intense.

"The visions?"

Dean nods his head, yes.

Castiel turns away, back toward the pair of benches. He hadn't been expecting this conversation now. He'd known of its imminence, but this seems almost too soon. "No. Never."

This throws Dean into confusion. "Than what is it? You believe me, you're different—just like I am, I know it."

"I can't fully explain it…"

Dean purses his lips. "Try."

Castiel sighs, but it's only fair if he at least attempts it. He's never really tried to explain all of it before. Bobby had experienced most of it first hand, and anyone else had written it off in his first few stuttering explanations. But he'll _try._ "How it was like in Bobby's house," he says slowly, "with the light," the brilliance, the power, the connection, the hope (but he doesn't say all that, he's not trying to overwhelm Dean).

"What light?"

This is why Castiel was reluctant to explain it. "You didn't see it," he mutters, "of course. It's…"

"Yes," Dean prompts.

"…like…your visions," Castiel tries, grasping for a comparison, "except it affects the physical plane, and it's—it's _dangerous._"

Understanding seeps into Dean's expression. "Yeah?"

"When I am…upset, it takes over. I've…" he swallows thickly, "hurt a few people. It's not intentional. It's not even voluntary, I try to keep away from stressful situations as much as possible, but there's only so much I can do."

"Seriously?"

Castiel grimaces. "Yes." He is not at all prepared for Dean's reaction.

"You have got to be kidding me," Dean exclaims. "I get stuck with the freaky visions and the spaz attacks, and you get super powers. What the hell?"

"Th—they're not _superpowers_. I don't even understand what happens. I am overwhelmed by—by this light and—and people have _died_, Dean."

"But not anymore, right? You're controlling it now. Like what you did with those bullies?"

Castiel gapes at him, speechless.  
"See, I'm right. You're totally a superhero. Man, that's unfair."

"It's not just that," Castiel snaps, "I've been hearing your name since before I could understand words."

Now, it's Dean's face that drops. "_My_ name?"

Castiel glowers at him.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, my name. But, _why?_"

"That's what Bobby and I were trying to figure out," Castiel sighs, and he turns back to pair of benches. He notices that the staring between the two men continues even as their words die off. He wonders if they're communicating some way, just between meaningful glances.

With a barely imperceptible sigh, the older Dean turns away. But, the second their eyes part, the vision's version of Castiel blips right out of existence.

"Did he just—"

"Yes," Castiel breathes. The idea of _not-human_ flits through his mind again. He's about to ask Dean if this sort of thing, people disappearing and appearing randomly, happens often in his visions, but the second after his counterpart disappears, the park freezes.

It's like someone's suddenly hit pause on the whole scene. The kids stop dead in the midst of their playing, one boy caught in the action of jumping, another girl frozen in the arch of her swing. Leaves in the midst of falling are suspended in the air. The twisted smile is stuck on the older Dean's face.

"What—"

"It's ending," Dean rushes out, "You're gone, so it's over, Cas—" Dean jerks out a hand, latching out onto Castiel's. It's a good thing he does, because, in that instant, the ground rips out from under Castiel's, and it's like he's falling through it and off all at the same time.

The vibrant fall colors are washing away to gray, and the sunlight has vanished entirely. "What's going on?" he demands, but even as he speaks, his words are ripped away, shredded into silence.

Dean is shouting, but it's like there's interference. The words are cut off and garbled. "Ca—ju—on't—let go!"

Castiel clings to Dean's hand, but as the park fades and the silence looms heavier, Dean is sucked away with the scene into nothingness. All too quickly, Castiel is left, spiraling into the abyss, fumbling after a hand that has ceased to exist.


	12. Absit Omen

**A/N:** Okay, really sorry that this is a day or so late. Schedule got a little busy this week. Hope everyone who's sticking with this story is enjoying it. I'm sending you all really nice hugs electronically that should arrive in about 5-12 business days. On the upside, the first episode of season 9 aired, so you can assume I'm screaming as I type this. Sorry for anybody I haven't gotten back to for reviews and such. That should happen in the next few days. Setting all that aside, I hope you love the chapter. Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following and just putting up with my erratic schedule and sometimes shoddy story-telling. I really appreciate it!

* * *

Castiel knows darkness. He knows the desperation of crouching in the corners of the darkest street and praying for the morning light. He knows the fear of pitch black basements, cobwebs in his hair, and pleading for the door to be unlocked. He knows the emptiness of talking—yelling—screaming and no one listening—no one caring. He knows these things with great intimacy—the closeness of a friend—but this darkness, it is nothing he has ever known.

If he'd thought he knew desperation, he was wrong.

If he'd thought he knew fear, he was wrong.

If he'd thought he knew emptiness, he was _wrong_.

Swept away in the aftermath of Dean's vision, Castiel is lost.

There's no up or down or left or right. No gravity to hold him close to the ground or steady him on his feet. Castiel falls while he flies. He chokes while he breathes—spinning and whirling and spiraling through the center of a black hole. That's what this is. A sucking void, and Castiel is soaring through it, faster than light itself. But where it ends, where he'll come out on the other side—_if _he'll come out at all—is a despairing mystery.

There is nothing to see and nothing to hold onto. It's almost how he envisioned space—minus the burning bright stars. All his eyes can perceive is _black. _He hurtles through this corridor of darkness and seconds stretch like hours into infinity. Just as he begins to catch his breath, the real terror starts.

It starts as a whisper, a murmur, a thought, and Castiel barely even notices it over the rush of air as he zooms through space. But the undertone turns into a shout, then a scream, and it shreds his ears, piercing his skull, but still doesn't stop.

A million people are talking, yelling, crying, muttering or laughing, but all together it transforms into a shrieking cacophony beating against Castiel. It all just _hurts. _Every voice is a searing whip on his consciousness, and there is not escape. He can't pass out, or cover his ears. He can't get away.

The darkness traps him here, and there is nowhere else to go.

"You—isten—me—boy!"

"…being strapped to a comet…"

"—off the rack—for thirty years—told him—"

"I wish…couldn't feel a…thing"

"Once—Cage is shut—too risky."

It has to stop. It has to stop. Castiel is going to burst—explode in a spray of red and white—if it doesn't _stop_. He lashes out, tearing at the darkness and the onslaught of horrible _noise_ with his own screams (of agony, of confusion, of retribution)

The darkness doesn't abate and the voices don't disappear into silence, but the overwhelming clamor lowers to the point where Castiel can _think _and the whirlwind terror of being thrown about eases into a turbulent fall.

As he struggles to regain his bearings now, one of the host of voices springs to loudness again. It's not the same deafening capacity as before, but Castiel still winces.

"It's okay," someone is saying, over and over again. "It's okay."

Castiel listens listlessly for a moment, before it slams into him _why_ the voice sounds so familiar.

It's _Dean._

He remembers the frantic pull of Dean's hand against his before the darkness closed in—the way he surged forward, fighting to save Castiel. How could Castiel have lost faith in him? Dean must have come back. He wouldn't abandon Castiel to this nightmare. He couldn't have.

"I'm here," Dean says, and Castiel wants to cry out—but again, the words are stolen from his mouth. He shoots towards the voice like a comet through the darkness, past the other mutterings thrumming in the background; ("You've come a long way to see this, haven't you?" "I can't do it—Alastair—right—not strong enough—not me—" "Why…our job… save everybody…done enough…") Castiel can't allow them to distract him.

He's getting closer; the black hole is sputtering out. Dean's just a little bit further—Castiel can feel it.

"I'm not gonna leave you," Dean assures, and Castiel makes it.

The darkness parts and the voices are yanked away, sharp out of his mind, but he does not mourn their losses. From the vortex, he is shoved straight into daylight with solid ground under his feet. Relief and elation slams into him so heavy he can't breathe. It last for about three seconds.

Three seconds, because that's all the time it takes for Castiel to realize he's not back in reality or saved by Dean. He's buried himself further into this labyrinth of illusoriness.

He's landed in a cemetery with a flat, gray sky above and dry, yellowing grass below. There's a moment of vertigo where Castiel forgets how to stand, but when he recovers, he can fully appreciate the horror of the scene in front of him.

The older version of Dean is here again, but he is not alone. There's a tall man whose long brown hair almost brushes his shoulders with him.

_With_ seems to be a gross inaccuracy. The man is pressing Dean into the side of a car (_The Car_, he thinks; the one that Dean's father drives—the one Dean has seen in his visions), and he's beating him mercilessly. Dean's mouth drips with blood, his eye swollen shut, but the punches keep coming. Over and over, but Dean doesn't fight back. He doesn't even _try_ to defend himself. He has a hand fisted in the other man's shirt, but there's no violence there. It's a feeble hold, and Castiel doesn't understand why Dean's just letting this happen.

Through red-stained teeth Dean whispers, "_Sam_."

It doesn't make sense. Castiel doesn't understand—_can't_ understand—until he sees the tall man's face. Then the realization falls onto him like dead weight.

The person beating Dean to into a pink mess of raw meat is none other than an older version of Sam. _Sam, _Dean's _brother._

The two men share the same sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, but not much more. The hulking, smiling mess before him bears no resemblance to the earnest, pseudo-innocent child that Castiel knows. There's vicious delight in the brute's face as he watches Dean recoil from yet another blow—it's not _Sam_ even more than this Dean isn't _Dean_.

The irrational (he already knows he has no physical effect in these visions) urge to fight off Sam's assault rises in his chest, but he can't even manage to breath let alone run across the field into the thick of the clash. All Castiel can do is watch.

Between his teeth, Dean hisses, "Sam," like a prayer, and, miraculously, the beating pauses. But Dean doesn't use this opportunity to flee or even restrain his attacker. He stares into Sam's eyes and clings to his arm desperately. "It's okay," he says. "It's okay."

This is what called to Castiel. What he so foolishly thought was meant for him.

"I'm here," Dean continues. "I'm…here."

Castiel cannot bear to watch anymore, but his eyes are fixed on the two of them. He can't tear his gaze away. It's as if the world has narrowed down to this one cemetery, this one car and these two brothers.

_How could this have happened?_

Dean sags against the car, his jacket pressing into the thick glass. The blood isn't drying on his face. It flows freely from his nose, the cuts on his brow and out of the corners of his mouth. He doesn't even wipe it off. He just clings to Sam, refusing to look away, then, exhales slowly. "I'm not gonna leave you."

Sam doesn't move. Just for an instant, he doesn't even twitch.

Castiel dares to hope that this atrocity is ending.

Yet again, he is wrong.

The next punch connects with an awful wet thud.

"_Dean!" _Castiel screams.

Miracle upon miracle, someone calls his name back, _"Cas!"_

Then, the spell is broken. Whatever held him in place, tied to this graveyard, watching this nightmare, dissolves. Before Castiel is forced to watch a second more, he is free, flying, shooting above the dry, dying grass and the tragedy below.

He rises and the darkness doesn't take him. The shrieking voices do not return. As the silence holds steady, he just keeps going, farther and farther away until only shadows exist under him.

Waking up feels like emerging from the icy, dark depths of the ocean. He struggles to breath and trembles all over, but he's free. He's safe.

The ground is just as cold and _real_ as the blankets tucked around him.

Unfortunately for Castiel, there is no reprieve between the shocking jolt into reality, and the chaos of real world.

Dean is shouting something at Meg, and she's trying to bend down condescendingly at him, a hand tightening around her shiv. They're turned to each other instead of Castiel, and the only one who seems to notice that he's back is Sam.

Castiel flinches away from the boy, but instantly regrets it. There's a knowing hurt in Sam's eyes and a self-loathing twist in his mouth. Castiel starts to apologize, but any words that might've made it out are drowned out by the uproar in front of them.

"What the hell did you do to him, you freak?" Meg demands.

"I-I didn't do _anything_," Dean insists, vehemently, "He just won't wake up—"

"You think I don't know about your little, devil-dreams?"

Dean takes a menacing step forward. "You don't know a damn thing."

"Oh, but _you_ do? Figured out why Castiel's taken you on as his next pity project?" Meg flips her blade over her fingers, bringing it to a stop directly at Dean's eye level. "He's just such a saint, ya' know? Helping out the mentally ill."

Castiel knows exactly where this is going, and while the stark relief of being with _his_ Dean and the _right_ Sam in the _real _world makes him want to sag wearily into the lumpy blankets, someone is going to draw blood eventually, and it's not going to be pretty.

"Stop it," Castiel commands.

Immediately, Meg and Dean jump from facing each other to crowding over Castiel, shoving elbows at each other's sides and shooting each other glares between concerned glances.

"Cas!"

"Cassy!"

They glower at each other.

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. The easy annoyance is pushing the cold desolation away, and the vision in the graveyard is fading into the faraway quality of a nightmare. Thank God. The room is bright, the artificial lights flash harshly, but at least Castiel can _see_.

Dean kneels down next to him, fingers twitching worriedly. His eyes (green—right—real) flick up and down evasively from Castiel's face to the floor. "You okay?"

_Bleeding knuckles and pleading eyes. "Sam, it's okay."_

Castiel shakes the memory to the back of his head. "Yes, I'm fine," he says firmly, willing it to be true.

"Like hell you are," Meg juts in, pushing Dean to the side. "What'd he do? Knock you out? Cast a spell on you? Spill his crazy all over you?"

Dean shoves her back, and before Castiel can answer, the two of them descend into a pushing contest, Meg slapping Dean on the back of the head, and Dean twisting her wrist in retaliation.

There is too much sprinting through Castiel's head right now for this nonsense. But before he is forced to scream at the two of them to stop acting like six-year olds, Sam steps in.

"Can you at least _try _to act your ages for five miniscule _seconds? _You're pissing Castiel off."

Dean and Meg freeze, and at the same time (it's actually quite eerie how in-sync they move) start on Sam before jerking their dual attention back to Castiel.

"She wouldn't listen to me," Dean rushes out. "I didn't know what happened, but I didn't do it on _purpose_."

"He wouldn't even let me _touch_ you. I mean, _talk_ about possessive," Meg says at the same time.

In an effort to prevent anymore bickering, Castiel raises a hand and pushes himself up into a sitting position. "Stop it. Both of you. My head is still spinning."

Their mouths click shut.

"Thank you." Castiel sighs. They're going to want an explanation. Castiel understands that, but it means explaining to Meg more things than desired. He doesn't want to speak about the graveyard. Talking about it would make it real. Quietly, Castiel resolves to keep that particular scene to himself.

"Okay," Castiel says, "One question at a time."

Both Meg and Dean open their mouths at the same time.

"_One_," Castiel stresses.

Dean frowns, and Meg takes the opening to speak. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you guys?"

How elegantly phrased.

Castiel rubs a hand over his face, trying to formulate an answer that doesn't give too much away, make either of them sound crazy or seem to unbelievable. One doesn't come to him, but that's fine, because Dean's gone and answered anyways.

"I have visions, and Cas has superpowers, you got a problem with that?"

Castiel buries his head in his hands.

Meg laughs at first, but when no one starts to correct her, it dies off. "You're not serious, are you?"

"'I _assure_ you I am _deadly_ serious,'" Dean says, throwing Meg's own words back at her.

"Visions? Superpowers? Did you guys do drugs last night? Inhale some of the lead paint?"

Castiel sighs. "No. He's telling the truth."

The answer hangs in the air, looming.

"Visions, Dean?" Sam asks quietly.

Castiel doesn't have to see Dean's face to know he falters.

"I-It's complicated, Sammy."

"I think it's really simple actually," Meg says, "Your older brother here is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and somehow he's got Clarence here to buy into it."

Castiel was going to take this slowly. He was going to ease into it, but his nerves are frayed to nothingness, and Meg has wasted his patience to nonexistence. "He is _not _crazy. Do not insult my intelligence. I know what's real, and what is fake. And _this_ is all _very_ real." He shoves the graveyard back far into the recesses of his mind. "You will stop attacking Dean, and _listen _to what he has to say."

"Or what?" Meg snaps. "You're not exactly fear inspiring, junior, and I do mean that in the nicest way."

Sitting here in an abandoned building, exhausted and spent, Castiel doesn't feel very intimidating. He doesn't feel like much more than a tired child.

Dean moves closer to Castiel, setting a hand on his leg over the blankets. "Or you deal with me," he states simply, and maybe it's the unassuming honesty that makes it so threatening.

It's enough to get Meg to slide an inch or so away, but not enough to remove her cocky grin. "Kid, I could take you without my knife. Hell, I could do it with a hand tied behind my back and _both_ my eyes closed."

Dean just smiles back. "Try me."

Castiel remembers the incident with bullies on the playground, namely Dean sending a boy twice his height to the ground with one punch and breaking another's wrist.

Though Meg couldn't know about that, she wasn't there, she drops her eyes and purses her lips. "Whatever. You're not even worth it."

"Sure," Dean says, grin spreading wide. "That's it."

Meg's jaw noticeably twitches, but she doesn't say anything more. Castiel takes it as a blessing. They still have to deal with Sam, and without Meg's antagonism, that's going to be much easier.

Castiel turns his attention to Dean. "I need to talk to Meg alone." He tries to convey the necessity of his words and a silent apology with a hand to the fingers splayed over his leg.

They react simultaneously. Meg perks.

Dean flinches. "Why?"

_Not because of you_, Castiel wants to say, but what comes out is: "It'll just be for a moment. You should speak with Sam."

"But—"

"Please, Dean."

Dean's confused and doesn't look like he'll go, so Castiel adds, again, in a softer voice, "_Please._" Dean visibly concedes, body sagging forward and eyes softening for one vulnerable second before shuttering down again.

"Fine." He mutters. He drags his hand out from under Castiel's and pushes up from the ground, not so subtly kneeing Meg in the shoulder. "Sammy, let's go." He walks briskly to the hole in the wall, now streaming with early morning light.

Sam stalls, casting worried glances at both Castiel and Dean.

"_Sam_," Dean urges, voice tight, without turning around.

Castiel doesn't think he's putting on an act. There is real anger and uncertainty oozing off him in waves. Castiel can see it in Dean's hands, molded into fists, and the way his shoulders have tensed into a solid rock wall.

The quicker Castiel finishes with Meg, the better. "Please, Sam," he says, with less of the persuasion he put into his plea for Dean. Sam's mouth flattens into a tight, dissatisfied line, but he ducks his head and starts moving.

"Stay by the boxes, kiddos. No one's out at this time but creepers and alcoholics," Meg chirps almost too cheerfully.

The brothers crawl through the hole, ignoring her, Sam first then Dean, and the room is silent once more.

Castiel licks his lips nervously. He hadn't wanted to spend this much time with Meg, and he certainly hadn't wanted to send Dean and Sam away. He wanted to get information, put together a lead and head out after Bobby as soon as possible, but it's becoming more apparent that she is their only resource. Perhaps unneeded if Castiel were on his own, but he is _not_ ditching the Winchesters. Irrational, or not, he fears what may happen to them if he isn't with the brothers. Just having them out of eyesight is nerve-wracking.

But Meg isn't going to give him anything just because he _asks._ She wasn't going to help last night, and she still thought they were vaguely sane then.

Castiel takes a deep breath. He may not understand everything that comes out of Meg's mouth, and they may have split on bad terms (only half of which is Castiel's fault), but they have history. _Years_ of history, and that has to count for something.

"I need you to believe me," Castiel says steadily, holding Meg's careful gaze. "I am not insane. I am not delusional. When I say something more is happening here, I need you to trust that I am telling the truth." Castiel had years of doubting himself before he could work up this conviction. Dean's not quite at that point yet, but Castiel will get him there.

Meg stares hard, examining him, and whatever she finds must be enough because she smiles slyly in the next second. "Good ol' Clarence, always knew there was something special about you."

It's almost too easy to be true. "Y—You believe me?" he asks, trying, and failing, not to sound so shocked.

"Hard not to when you come at me with those puppy dog eyes." Meg flips her hair indifferently. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I can be pleasant sometimes. What I'm really concerned about here is _you_. Who else knows about these…superpowers?"

_They're _not _superpowers_, Castiel thinks bitterly, but he doesn't say anything. Meg's nonchalance and semi-easy acceptance has him on edge. She's never been the type to agree to anything easily—she digs her heels in for argument's sake, refusing on principle to be agreeable. But, maybe Castiel is just paranoid about this. He's only really explained this all to a few people.

"As far as I know, only Dean, Sam and Bobby," Castiel answers warily.

Meg nods thoughtfully. "Bobby have any superpowers?"

"No," Castiel replies immediately.

"But he believes you?"

"_Yes_."

She chews that over. Castiel knows she's thinking because her knife is out again, spinning around her fingers. "That's your little project together?"

"Yes." For the most part, but Meg doesn't need to know more.

"And Abaddon, in all likelihood, kidnapped him?"

His next "Yes" is strained and brittle.

"Then isn't it safe to assume that Abaddon knows, too?"

"_No_," Castiel says emphatically, but even as he says it, he's considering the possibility, the chances, and it's actually quite plausible. "Maybe," he amends.

Meg grins smugly. "See, I'm not just a pretty face." She pats Castiel lightly on the head like a dog. He jerks away from her, but she is already standing up and moving across the room.

"What are you doing?" He demands. Castiel is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She doesn't answer at first; just keeps walking to the pipes on the farthest walls, and when she reaches them, her hands start digging in the crevices behind them. "Thought I'd give you some reading for the ride to Kansas City—oracle boy doesn't seem like a great conversationalist."

The indignant retort dies on his tongue. "Kansas City?" Too many memories are tied up in those two words. "_Why_?"

From behind the pipes, Meg produces the same Ziploc bag from last night. She grins, then tosses it to Castiel.

He catches it without thinking and begins scanning the document on top. _Devil at your Door: A Surge in Cult Activity?_ is the headline. "I don't understand. What does this have to do with Kansas City?"

Exaggeratedly, Meg rolls her eyes. "_That_? That's just some background readings on Abaddon. What's in Kansas City is a certain guy who might have the solution for your…_unique_ problem. Plus, there's plenty of familiar faces who'd _love_ to see you again, Clarence."

That's what Castiel is afraid of.

Suddenly, Dean's head pops through the hole in wall like some sideways jack-in-the-box, making Castiel jump. He looks a lot less upset now, not even a trace of anger left. After Castiel recovers from the shock, some part of him, he hadn't even been aware, of untenses.

Meg scowls at him. "What the hell are you doing pipsqueak—"

"There're these three black vans," Dean cuts in, silencing her, "that're circling the block. This is somethin' to actually worry about, yeah?"

_Because things aren't bad enough as it is._

"Hear that?" Meg says, actually perking up. "Time to pack up and get on the road. Next stop, Kansas City."

Dean's head swivels in her direction. "What's in Kansas City?"

"The answer to _all_ our problems," Meg answers in a sing-song voice.

Castiel is unimpressed and makes sure she can read that plainly on his face, as he stumbles to his feet, shrugging off blankets like a cocoon. "There has to be a better option."

"Nope." Meg shrugs. "This is it."

"But—" A muffled yell from outside cuts Castiel off.

"_Dean_, one of the vans just stopped on the street, what're we doing about that?"

"Yeah, guys," Dean relays, "What're we doing about that?"

"We are leaving," Meg answers, starting towards the hole.

"Meg—"

"Cas," Dean interjects, "that, uh, actually seems like a good idea."

Castiel blinks disbelievingly at him. "Kansas City is _not_ a good idea."

"Y'know what," Meg snaps, "anywhere but here, is a good idea. So how's about you get your tiny asses moving." She pushes on Dean's forehead, and he glowers at her before disappearing to let her through.

As soon as her dyed blonde hair has passed, his head pops back in. "Seriously. Now's a good time to get moving."

"But…"

"Cas," Dean smiles encouragingly at him, "it's gonna be fine."

Castiel sincerely doubts that, but at least when it all crashes down around them, he'll be able to say, "I told you so." He shakes his head, but heads to the hole anyways.

"That's what I'm talking about," Dean says. He backs out of the hole and out from under the soggy cardboard boxes.

Castiel climbs through after him, dreading every movement.

_Kansas City_.

Dean doesn't know what he's getting himself into.


End file.
